The Illusive Empire
by Nicolai Alvin Hubert
Summary: Humanity has been humiliated. The Systems Alliance has capitulated. Britannia is a joke. But Lelouch vi Britannia is the one playing it, and he does not forget. He does not forgive. Neither does Jane Shepard – not even her brother. Between them all, only one thing is certain: there will be blood. (A rewrite of The Illusive Emperor).
1. Prologue

**As you have likely no doubt been informed in the alert in _The Illusive Emperor_ , this is a rewrite of the same. The reason for this, of course, has already been discussed, so we won't explore it further here. But expect a lot of things to change from here on out. The overall plan is for this story to hopefully be updated every other month, with maybe a slightly faster update speed depending on how much time AlSmash has in between his other works. It will be what it will be.**

 **Anyhow, here is the story—or at least the prologue—to set the stage for hopefully a better story for all of you to enjoy – and one that we don't end up becoming unhappy with again.**

 **Prologue**

 **Pendragon**

 **Holy Britannian Empire**

 **Earth, Sol System, Carcerem Cluster**

 **November 16th, 2162 [5 AH]**

For nearly four hundred years, it had been called the Gem of the Sonoran – a veritable oasis in an equally harsh environment. It had inspired whole volumes of poetry, and been romanticized in many literary classics over the year. Pendragon: a name that even now, two millennia later, held itself in deference to the man who had given birth to the greatest empire in human history.

An empire that would continue to exist past the owner of the violet eyes that stared out in silent contemplation of the vista that surrounded her. A vista that had served as a silent relief from the harsh reality and desperate struggle to maintain that which had been saddled upon her. A vista that still bore the scars of a lost war.

"Are you sure, Cera?"

Marianne vi Britannia, 120th Empress of the Holy Britannian Empire, could not bring herself to look back to the young woman who had been a friend, lover, and confidante over the years—one of the few lights in the darkness that followed the death of her husband—knowing she would find the same conflict afflicting her.

"Primarch Octalius authorized it three hours ago."

Her eyes closed as she placed her hand upon the cool window pane, a stark contrast to the dry heat that lingered outside, ready to remind them exactly where they resided. Yet the cool relief was just enough to prevent her from letting the mask that she had cultivated over the last six years shatter and expose the sorrow that burgeoned beneath.

It wasn't very often that you _knew_ that you were going to die. Not in the existentialist nonsense of existence and its natural end. No, the knowledge that you now had a time frame of _termination._

She closed her eyes, slowly drawing in a breath to calm herself from despairing.

Once upon a time, she would had been considered one of the most beautiful women in Britannia. Yet that was now but a memory; the last decade had robbed her of the vivacity that had been what had attracted the former Emperor to her in the first place. The burden of leadership, of the knowledge of what lurked in the shadows as you fought a desperate campaign to survive, had rendered grey into her hair and aged her in a way that made her look to be in her late thirties to early forties, than the barely-thirty that she truly was.

Now, she was going to die, and place the burden that had been haunting her every decision upon her only son.

"How soon?" she asked, finally, still not bringing herself to look to Cera.

"As soon as an opportunity is presented. Likely within the next month."

"Am I the only target?" That was the most important question.

"Yes. Octalius believes that, with Lelouch on the throne, it will be easy to intimidate Britannia back into the Systems Alliance."

A bark of laughter escaped her lips at the thought. Lelouch? Intimidated? It was hard enough as is to intimidate him into doing his studies. Unless Octalius could recreate the puppy dog eyes that Nunnally used to get her brother to do her bidding, the Turian was in for an extremely rude awakening.

"You don't have to do this, Marianne. You can—"

Again, she laughed – but this time it was soft. Admiring. While she had accepted what needed to be done, it was Cera who refused to give up despite the writing on the wall.

A part of her hated to do this to her.

"No," she clarified after a moment, "I know what you are thinking, Cera, and I thank you for it. But I will not abdicate the throne. If I do so now, the Turians will only be emboldened, believing they can bully us into obedience. I refuse to leave that legacy to Lelouch. Nor will I selfishly compromise our strategic advantages to live."

"But Marianne—you'll die."

Her heart clenched at Cera's plaintive tone, knowing how much this devastated the younger woman. She turned finally to face her best friend, meeting amber eyes that always showed so much more emotion than the woman ever allowed herself to express.

Silently, she strode forward, wrapping her arms around the shorter woman, and Cera let the dam burst oh-so-slightly, a choked sob escaping her lips as she buried her head into Marianne's breast

"I know," Marianne said, almost lightly, "it's not fair. They probably won't even have pizza wherever I'm going. Imagine that!"

Cera laughed, a short, sharp gasp of amusement. There was nothing beautiful about it, but it still brought a smile to Marianne's face. It was always a challenge getting Cera to laugh even at the best of time, and she'd treasure every victory. The timing only made her savour it all the more.

"I love you," she told the woman, who seemed determined to cling to Marianne as if her body might block the bullet that would one day kill the Empress. (It wouldn't work. That was how Beatrice Phalanx had died, trying to shield Michele Manfredi from a sniper. The round had passed through her head on its way to blowing off his shoulder). "You know that, right?"

She'd loved Charles, too; fallen hard for his strength and confidence. His passion. It was his greatest strength and weakness all in one. There was just _too much_ of the Emperor, in everything he did and everything he was, for any one person. Any one woman. Marianne had been his favourite, but certainly not his only.

That was why Marianne hadn't fought the slow, meandering journey Cera had taken to her heart. There was no guilt; she wasn't betraying Charles' memory by finding comfort in the eventual arms of another. Hell, if he'd been alive, he'd have probably been proud of her. And asked to join in, the bloody horndog.

Her smile had widened without her quite realising, and she hid it in a kiss to the crown of Cera's head. Best not to make her think Marianne was _happy_ about dying, especially not when she wasn't. Cera still hadn't responded, but Marianne didn't expect her to; the woman had never quite known what to do with being told she was loved, and the arms stiffening across her back told Marianne the story her mouth wouldn't speak anyway.

"When it happens," she murmured against the crown of her lover's head, "I want you to promise me something."

"Anything," Cera rasped.

"Take Lelouch and Nunnally to Avalon."

"What?"

Marianne pulled herself away from her, looking down upon her solemnly, "Lelouch will not be ready for any of this, Cera. He'll be lost and angry, I want you to take them to Avalon and raise them. Prepare them. There's no one I trust more than you with this task."

For a long moment, Cera merely stared at her, before bowing her head, "The Reapers."

Such a simple title, yet so horrifying in the implications. Just the concept of a sentient techno-organic race whose sole _purpose_ was the extermination of all life in the galaxy in cycles was the sort of thing you would believe was a work of fiction. In fact, when Charles had first told her about them, she had laughed at him.

That had been until he had introduced her to Retribution. Even now, she could remember sitting there in horrified silence as the former Prothean VI detailed the fall of the Prothean Empire, from the sudden loss of communications from the Citadel—the Prothean seat of government—to the horde of unknown ships that poured in from dark space, overrunning system after system in a tsunami of metal and death. Retribution hadn't stopped there; he'd explained every brutal detail of the war of extermination, as the Protheans desperately fought back with the level of professionalism and ferocity that had gained them an Empire that spanned the galaxy… only for it to, at best, slow the Reaper's unceasing advance. Never stop them.

She bore witness to the dawning realization by the remaining Prothean leadership that they simply _couldn't_ win: that no matter how brilliantly or ferociously they fought, no matter how many battles they won, the Reapers would simply continually, and inexorably grind them into nothing. She'd seen the decision, by what remained, to try and save what they could through whatever means available. To sacrifice the many to save what precious few they could in order to give tomorrow a chance.

By the end, she had sat there numbly, wanting to _believe_ that this was some cruel joke by Charles. But even that hope was taken away; Charles had told her that only a handful of people in the Britannian Empire knew this, and that Retribution believed that it was only a matter of generations now until the Reapers would appear again to reset the cycle.

And just when she thought that she couldn't be appalled even further, Charles had dropped yet an even larger bombshell: Britannia had known of the existence of the Reapers for _nearly two hundred years!_

Historians to this day still questioned why Arthur zi Britannia had overthrown his father and assumed the Imperial Throne. Officially, it was believed that Arthur zi Britannia had become disenchanted by the loss of life that had been incurred in the fifteen years that the longest and costliest war in human history had raged.

The Great War, as it was simply known, had been a war that had spanned the globe. Fought between the Holy Britannia Empire, Europia United, Russian and Chinese Federations, and the African Union, it had claimed over a quarter of the world's population before finally ending three years after Arthur had assumed the throne. It was Arthur's military brilliance—and a string of victories that were required reading in almost every military academy spanning the Earth—that had set the stage for what became the Requiem Accords, when Arthur zi Britannia brought the leaders of the other powers to the table and ironed out not only peace, but then united the other powers into a confederation that would eventually become the Systems Alliance.

Even now, despite the prevailing anti-Britannian sentiment in the Systems Alliance, Arthur zi Britannia's legacy was still acknowledged. Such was the impact the man had upon the history of humanity.

The truth, however, was vastly different. It had been a twenty-three-year-old Arthur, who had just received news of the death of his older brother, that had stumbled across the ancient Prothean facility in the middle of the Sonoran Desert in his grief. He'd wanted to get away from the world – and instead found another entirely. It was there that he encountered Retribution and learned that not only that humanity was not alone in the galaxy, but there existed a threat that made the petty internecine conflict that had plagued humanity seem utterly insignificant.

When Arthur finally emerged from the Sonoran Desert nearly three months later, he was no longer alone, and he carried with him a new purpose. Gone was the young man who had been considered by many a naive, idealistic fool, who believed without fail in the good of man; instead, Arthur joined the military, cutting his way through his peers as he rose rank after rank. It would be four years later, after achieving the rank of General for military successes and gathering many who shared a like-minded disillusionment with the direction of Britannia, that Arthur would ruthlessly seize power, personally killing his father in the coup .

Through it all, Retribution had silently been in the shadows, offering input to Arthur while pushing for humanity to reach the Prothean Archive that had been left upon Mars: an archive that would guide humanity to a world that was off the the mass effect relay network. It would be there, with was was hoped to be some remnants of the Prothean Empire, that they would prepare for the next incursion by the Reapers.

It had been on that revelation that Charles had presented to her Project Safehold, a project that had been embarked upon because Retribution had been but one arrow in the quiver of the Prothean's promise of vengeance upon the Reapers. They had observed humanity for years, recognizing the possibility that they could be a useful asset in the future, and so they had left an archive upon Mars in the hope that maybe humanity would discover it and use it. Retribution had been tasked to lead humanity to that hidden planet—the one that was off the relay network—to meet up with some of the last of the best and brightest of the Prothean Empire.

The Protheans had hoped that humanity, if it followed along the growth rate projected by Prothean scientists, would be able to join up with the younger races, and whatever remained of the Prothean Empire, in time to prepare a vengeance fifty thousand years in the making.

Unfortunately, humanity had lagged behind the growth rate set by the Protheans, and any chances of being able to work closely with the other young races was ruined by the Humiliation.

As a result, Britannia's secession from the Systems Alliance had been made as their most desperate gambit There was no way they would be able to work within the system in order to prepare for the Reapers. The Reapers _owned_ the system, whether the galaxy knew it or not. Thus, Safehold had no longer become their trump card – it had become their only hope against both the Reapers and quite possibly the Council. There were no Protheans to exonerate them–Safehold held only tombs and memories of the dead—there was only the knowledge left behind. Knowledge that could not be shared with their enemy.

A darker side of Marianne freely admitted that she was not capable of what was coming. It had taken everything out of her to lead Britannia back from the edge of oblivion. She was just—tired. The stress and strain had left her a shadow of her former self, and she felt like she had nothing left to give.

It was selfish of her, but she knew, deep down, that if there was anyone who could do what needed to be done, it would be her son. He had the best qualities of Charles and herself, and with the right people surrounding him, like Cera, he would be ready when the time came.

It was just that… it was heartbreaking that she would not be there to see him when it happened.

"I know I can trust you on this, Cera. You're the only one that I can. Too many other people would try to take advantage of them both. Promise me, no matter what you do, you'll look out for them."

"I—I promise," Cera said quietly, her voice breaking, "for you."

 **TIE**

It was a surreal feeling, arranging your own assassination.

But it would be a cold day in hell before she allowed Lelouch and Nunnally be witness to her death. Just the thought of it instilled a barely restrained anger that threatened to burn through her already frayed self-control.

No, they would not be party to any of this. She would at least save them from the horrors of war for now . She was not going to scar them with her blood upon them, no matter what. It would be the last thing she would ever do.

Thus, in order to ensure that it would happen by her design, she had gone to the one man she could trust. After all, as the Knight of One, Michele Manfredi was in charge of her protection. He was quite different now from the charming, jovial man who always seemed to have a smile on his face that he had once been. But then again, as the sole surviving Knight of the Round from the Humiliation, he had seen not only some of his best friends and comrades die, but also his lover, who had sacrificed herself in the vain attempt to spare him from a Turian sniper. No – the old Michele Manfredi was long gone, and in his place was a stoic man with a quiet intensity that left no room to smile.

The shouting match that had taken place between the two had been the complete reverse of what had taken place between herself and Cera. Manfredi had wanted no part in the death of another of his liege-lords, the loss of Charles having hit him hard in the past. And yet, he was the only person she could trust to ensure that everything was done right – so she had pressed him, using every trick she had in order to secure his services and silence.

After almost an hour, he had finally relented: not because she had won the argument, but because he could see that she was hellbent on it. With no other choice but to ensure her last wishes were fulfilled, even if it came at the cost of himself, they had worked together to ensure the Turians would take the bait dangled in front of them.

 **TIE**

 **Pendragon**

 **Holy Britannian Empire**

 **Earth, Sol Sector, Carcerem Cluster**

 **December 1st, 2162 [5 AH]**

As the sun rose over Pendragon, Nihlus Kyrik took the time to admire it. While it was nothing against the rise of Trebia over Palaven's skyline, it held its own unique beauty. He'd always taken the time to admire sunrises; they always meant the beginning of something new to him.

However, in this case, the sunrise was merely the harbinger of a new mission, one that was quite honestly the most important one he had yet to take. One that had implications far beyond anything he could see, except that it would avoid another war with humanity.

He had been on the frontlines in the final days of the campaign as the Hierarchy slowly strangled humanity for their crimes against the Council. Not only had they violated the laws regarding the activation of dormant relays, but they had also mounted thermonuclear devices upon their probes and launched them into Turian space. While the former could have been a misunderstanding if cooler heads had prevailed, the latter was unforgivable, and for that, the Council had decreed that humanity should be punished for their actions.

And yet humanity, specifically this Holy Britannian Empire, refused to learn its lesson. They'd broken away from the Systems Alliance that had signed the Erta Ale Accord with the Council by using a legal loophole that the Council had not been aware of. Before the ink had even dried upon their secession, they had began a rapid rearmament that had been met with grudging amazement by the Turian Hierarchy; they'd found themselves outmaneuvered by the Britannian Empire, who had used several older Council Laws and rulings in order to justify their rapid rebuilding.

Even the Council had found itself hamstrung, because it simply could not rule that Britannia had to disarm – not without causing other client species to become wary of the Council overstepping its power and authority.

That was why orders had come down from Primarch Octalius to assassinate Empress Marianne vi Britannia, and why he would be the Turian to pull the trigger to claim her life. Not in anger, but in duty, and to save lives.

Kill one to save millions.

Unlike many of his brethren, he had gained a respect for humanity, having fought them at Eden Prime and then Terra Nova. Despite being woefully outmatched, they had met the Turian Hierarchy with everything they had. Tenacious and adaptive, they had fought the martial prowess of his people with a chaotic unpredictability that had stymied them at almost every turn.

While it hadn't been enough in the end, there were quite a few Turians who would never look at a human and underestimate them. They were just too spirits-damned wily.

The soft flanging cough of his partner drew him from his thoughts, and he met the gaze of his mentor, Saren Arterius. While he was now a SPECTRE, Saren still did work for the Hierarchy, never forgetting his roots.

It had been Saren who had suggested him for this mission, saying that he was the only Turian he could trust to ensure that this mission could be completed without a hitch. And it was Saren that, as his spotter, would provide him the information he needed in order to complete the mission and avert another war with humanity.

"The target shall be arriving in ten minutes, Nihlus."

Nodding, he took a deep steadying breath, familiarizing himself again with the Batarian-made sniper rifle, a weapon he had encountered several times over the years and had gained intimate familiarity with. The weapon was merely one of hundreds that had flooded the human market as the Batarians were looking to gain a quick credit – if it was ever discovered, which it wouldn't be, it would only be tracked back to a shipment that was purchased by a human in someplace called Tokyo.

Satisfied once again that everything was optimal, he readied himself, knowing that they would only get one, maybe two shots, before they would have to make their escape. Their stealth netting was good, but it wouldn't take much to retrace the shot, and it would be best to make sure that they were long gone when the Britannians recovered and converged here.

A few minutes later of looking through his scope, he tensed as he watched as several air-cars escorted by gunships arrive outside of the Britannian House of Lords. A smaller part of him found it ridiculous how Pendragon's design allowed for such an easy shot at five kilometers, the longest range he'd trust this rifle.

Unclenching and then clenching his hand, everything fading away to the shot and his spotter. He watched as a raven-haired human female stepped out of her aircar, the guards around her snapping salutes as she began striding towards the large building.

"Target ID is confirmed. It's her," Saren declared. "You're clear for the shot."

Saren's job now over, Nihlus' only focus became his target. He watched her as she strode up the stairs, noting the speed in which she did it. Satisfied, he flipped the safety of the rifle to off, before placing his finger over the trigger. For a long moment, everything was still. He had all the time in the world, in his mind, as he inhaled a breath and held it.

The target stopped, and he almost blinked. It was unexpected that she would stop, and even later, when he had the opportunity to review what happened, he would still find it inexplicable. But, nevertheless, it happened. She turned, looking out amongst the crowd as his finger tightened over the trigger, crosshairs resting just slightly above her head. To his dying breath, he would swear that, as he pulled the trigger, her gaze shifted ever-so-slightly away from the crowd and straight towards him.

Then the moment was gone. He watched Marianne vi Britannia, 120th Empress of the Holy Britannia Empire, crumple to the ground like a broken puppet, blood painting the stairs behind her a macabre crimson.

"Nice shot," Saren said quietly.


	2. Chapter 1

**Hello and welcome back to** _ **The Illusive Empire!**_ **Thank you kindly for all your reviews to the prologue; it—and the decision to rewrite as a whole—seems to have been well-received. This chapter is mostly focused on Britannia, and introduces a character we left out of the last version but who will have a far more important role here. The next one will involve, amongst other things, both Shepards and Best Girl (if you don't know who that is, you're reading the wrong story).**

 **This will be the first and last time we mention this, but if you did not already know, AlSmash has a Discord server where you can find all of us (it even has a dedicated channel for discussing TIE). The server code is cqp3fCb so we hope to see you there!**

 **Chapter 1**

 **Pendragon**

 **Holy Britannian Empire**

 **Earth, Sol System, Carcerem Cluster**

 **December 8th, 2162 [5 AH]**

For Lelouch vi Britannia, the last week had become the sort of waking nightmarish hell that he would wish only upon his enemies – except he didn't even know who his enemies _were_.

All he knew, was that his mother, Empress Marianne vi Britannia, was dead. Assassinated by a sniper. Even now, a week later, all he could see when he closed his eyes was the image of her sprawled on the steps of the House of Lords, her lifeblood spilling out and staining the pristine white marble as she stared vacantly up to the heavens.

It was only a miracle that Nunnally had not been watching when it had happened. His mother's—his mother's _murder_ had stunned him into insensibility, and he didn't want to imagine what it would have done to his sister. The moment it had happened, he'd found himself and Nunnally being quickly grabbed and taken to one of the secret bunkers meant for the Imperial family. There, his worst fears had been confirmed; he'd hoped, somehow, that his mother managed to survive—even though he knew she couldn't have—but it had been a child's hope.

Lelouch was now the 121st Emperor of the Holy Britannian Empire, and there was no more time to be a child.

More importantly, he and Nunnally were now orphans. If he had a choice, he would have given the damn title back in exchange for his mother. She was worth more than anything else. But that, too, was a child's fantasy.

Lelouch didn't know how to be an Emperor. He didn't know how to be an orphan. He did, however, know how to be a brother. So, he did what any other ten-year-old big brother would do: he looked out for his sister. At six years of age, Nunnally had issues understanding that their mother would not be coming home. Nor did he have the heart to show her the proof that woke him screaming from sleep. Instead, he weathered his sister's inconsolable grief – when it wasn't powerless anger that she took out on anyone who came near. Mostly him.

It had only just been an hour ago when he had finally got her to sleep again, and he could feel exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his vision. The only things keeping him from succumbing were the nightmares that refused to let him forget—regardless of whether it would have made a difference—that his mother had died _alone_.

All of this led him to where he was now, staring vacantly at the vid-screen, the news channel still running round-the-clock coverage of the assassination a week later. Lelouch didn't register anything they were saying. He was lost in his own thoughts, trying to remember a mother that already seemed to be fading away in his mind. What had they had for breakfast together the day she died? How long had they spent braiding Nunnally's hair last month?

It was to this scene that Cera stepped into the room. After Marianne had decided that the assassination would go on, she couldn't stay. Returning back to Avalon, she'd buried herself in her work as the Director of Project Safehold, not wanting to dwell upon the knowledge that soon she would receive the call to return back to Britannia to bury her lover – and in the process be entrusted with not only the future of Britannia, but of the galaxy altogether.

Every day she'd woke up, she'd wondered why she bothered.

But she had made a promise to Marianne—the other half of her heart—and she would honor it to her dying breath. No matter how much pain it caused her to look at Lelouch and be reminded of _her_.

Clearing her throat, she watched as it brought Lelouch from his reverie. His head turned to look at her, and amethyst eyes—just a shade darker than Marianne's—took her in. His expression morphed into a scowl.

"Lady Cera." Her name came out just short of a growl.

Reminding herself that Lelouch was not Marianne, despite how similar they both looked at the age, she bowed slightly. "Your Majesty."

When no further acknowledgment came, she took a few more moments to glance up, quickly noting that his glare hadn't abated. Cera couldn't help but marvel at how like Marianne the glare was, before quickly discarding the thought with a pang of sadness. She hadn't come to remember.

"Why are you here?" he demanded; he wasn't quite sneering, but it looked like he wanted to.

It was a question she wasn't quite sure how to answer. She could talk about how she was here to brief him upon Project Safehold, which was technically her job. She could try and comfort him – but she suspected he was more likely to bite her arm off than accept it in sympathy.

So instead, in honor of the woman she had loved, she decided to be blunt. Marianne had often told her it was one of her best qualities.

"I'm here to fulfill a promise."

Lelouch's snort of derision pretty much told her what he thought of that. Being the ten year old that he was—yet to learn restraint, unable to control his impulses—he didn't just stop there. The next words that exited his mouth were like a knife to her heart.

"Rather late for that, Duchess. Don't you think?" His lip curled. "One has to wonder where you have been hiding for the last month. It surely wasn't in my mother's bed—"

Cera had never been one for losing herself to anger; the ability to detach herself from emotion was one of the hallmarks of her directorship of Project Safehold. They called her a witch to her face because of the leaps of progress she'd managed to conjure out of what seemed like nowhere, and a bitch behind her back for the fact she never let anything get to her – success, failure, or even a broken coffee machine.

Unfortunately, with her emotions as raw as they were—and with the son of the very woman she would move heaven and hell for insinuating that she would _dare_ dishonor her memory in such a way—it was only who he was that prevented her from slapping him right then and there. And for all that Cera could control her hands, she couldn't control her mouth.

"I _loved_ her." Her voice rang out, low and soft, like a gunshot grounding itself in flesh. It was the voice of a woman who was only alive because of a duty to the dead. "I'd have done anything for her, Your Majesty. But she—"

In the face of her suffering, Lelouch's anger did not die. It did, however, cool. Instead of the woman who had abandoned his mother—who had always been a distraction for her from Nunnally and himself—he saw a woman who was honestly as broken as he was. A kindred spirit in grief.

Lelouch did not know how to be an Emperor – but he understood enough that when he spoke again, into the silence Cera could not bear to break, the anger was buried beneath his need to know why she'd come to him so late. Or why she'd come at all.

"What was your promise?" he asked, his voice quavering just slightly.

"Mari—Marianne asked me to take you and Nunnally to Avalon."

It wasn't exactly the best way to start, considering Avalon _didn't exist_ , but it wasn't the worst either. And with her own personal… guard replacing everyone but the Knight of One at the moment, she did not need to worry about interruption. She held up a hand to preempt his response, calling on the same matter-of-fact manner that had served her well in the past.

"I was not only your mother's paramour, Your Highness. I was, and still am, the Director and Project Lead for Project Safehold. I know you don't know what that is, so please permit me to explain."

Grateful that Lelouch remained silent, Cera worked to gather her thoughts. There was just too much to discuss and not enough time.

"What I am about to tell you, Your Highness, has been the most closely guarded secret of the Britannia line for over two hundred years. The number of people aware of this secret is limited to the Emperor, the Knight of One, Director of Project Safehold, and maybe two or three others that the Emperor trusts in order to ensure the survival of this knowledge in the event of disaster."

Holding up her arm, she activated her omnitool, the haptic controls becoming visible for all to see as she twisted her wrist palm-up.

"Retribution."

The omni-tool flickered, cycling through colours from orange to green struck through with magenta. An alien figure appeared in her hand, recognisable to anyone in the galaxy: Prothean.

"Greetings, Director. Communications are secure. What did you wish to discuss?"

"May I present His Imperial Majesty, Lelouch vi Britannia, the 122nd Emperor of the Holy Britannian Empire," she said, watching the naked shock on his face with a mild sense of schadenfreude. "Your Majesty, this is Retribution, a Prothean VI dedicated to defeating the Reapers."

Lelouch blinked. "The Reapers?"

Retribution's avatar disappeared, replaced by what might have been a giant metal cuttlefish, if cuttlefish were forged from hate and death and the corpses of civilisations.

"Every fifty thousand years," came Retribution's voice, "the techno-organic constructs designated 'Reapers' flood through the galaxy and genocide every space-capable species for reasons unknown before returning back to dark space. They engaged the Protheans at the height of our empire and won, as they have during every other cycle in history; a history that has been confirmed to stretch back at least a billion years."

"Okay," Lelouch said, taking a deep breath. His hand shook, slightly. "So there are gigantic death machines that want to murder us all every so often. Great. _What does this have to do with my mother?_ "

"Projections estimate that the next cycle is due to begin within fifty years," Cera interjected. "Maybe as little as twenty. We don't know. It's been the life's work of every Britannian ruler since Arthur—who found Retribution—to try and ready the Empire, ready _humanity_ , for the Reapers. Marianne made me promise that when she died, I would bring you and your sister to Avalon – not only to keep you safe, but so you could lead our last, desperate efforts to save the galaxy."

"When," Lelouch said. He was very, very still. "You said _when_ , not _if_. Mother knew. _She knew this was going to happen_."

Cera realised, with slow, dawning horror, that Marianne had never quite told her exactly how brilliant her son was. His mind was like a blade, cutting to exactly where she didn't want him to go.

"And so did you," he continued in a whisper like unsheathing steel. "I wondered why you'd disappeared a few weeks ago, but I was glad, because it meant Mother had more time for me and Nunnally. I thought she'd finally gotten rid of you. But you—you were just _hiding_. You didn't want to be here when it happened. You didn't want to _watch._

"Mother let herself die, and you didn't stop her. And now you come here speaking of Protheans and Reapers and saving the galaxy, expecting me to… to jump to your bidding with every ounce of my altruistic heart? Get out. Get out before I kill you myself!"

It should not have been threatening, coming from a ten-year-old, stick-thin boy without a weapon or even a guard to call upon. But there was something in the dark, twisted rage that crawled across his face and set his eyes alight that made part of her want to run. Lelouch vi Britannia descended from a line that straddled greatness and madness both – and it showed.

Nevertheless, Cera stood her ground. The venom he'd thrown at her was nothing compared to what she'd thrown at herself, and if he wanted to kill her, that was fine: once he knew about Safehold, about Avalon, her work was done. Others could succeed her, and maybe she'd get to see Marianne again. But first she had her duty, and it had been given to her by someone she feared disappointing far, far more than death itself.

"If you want to, go ahead," she said. "It's not as if I have much to live for anymore – or much time, if the Reapers arrive ahead of schedule. But before that, Your Majesty, do you want to know _why_ Marianne died? Why she let it happen, and denied my every attempt to stop her from going along with her own assassination? Or even why Britannia fell so easily to the Hierarchy, when we have spent two centuries preparing to fight a threat that would slap them aside without a moment's thought?"

Lelouch opened his mouth to speak, and hesitated. _Got you_. There was no satisfaction in the triumph.

"Your mother—Marianne—let herself be assassinated because _she_ decided that we couldn't afford to let the Turians know how deeply we've infiltrated their systems with Retribution's help," she said into the silence. "Because it would jeopardise our revenge against the Turians and Reapers both if they understood more of our capabilities. Your father personally ordered the Prothean-inspired fleet at Avalon, the base of Project Safehold, to stand down when the Turians attacked, because we _could not let_ the Reapers learn of it."

Cera broke protocol to take a step forward, closer to Lelouch.

"Your parents gave their lives for Project Safehold, Your Majesty, and if that is what you want, I am fully prepared to do the same. But you are not the only one who has suffered because of it, and if you ignore the duty that has been passed from father to son, mother to daughter, for the whole history of Arthur's line, then there will be _trillions_ in your position soon enough. In Cornelia's. In Euphemia's. In _Nunnally's_."

 _In mine._

Lelouch's gaze flickered to the right; if the wall hadn't been there, he'd have been looking straight into his sister's room. Cera knew she was wielding her words like a club, trying to beat him around to her point of view without a hint of subtlety or diplomacy, but she didn't have the time for anything else. They had weeks at best to get Lelouch and Nunnally to Avalon, and sort out who would rule Britannia until he came of age and _officially_ became Emperor. At least she'd figured out how to disguise his extraction ahead of time.

"God damn you," he breathed out eventually, sounding exhausted, "you win. You win."

"Nothing about this situation could be considered a victory, Your Majesty."

He glared at her, briefly. "Fetch Schneizel. You'll need him."

Cera blinked. "Schneizel? Neither Charles nor Marianne particularly trusted him. He's too hard to read."

"I know that. I don't trust him either. But Schneizel is only the way this works. Unless you want _Guinevere_ to be my regent."

Marianne had told her about Guinevere,and what happened to her. Lelouch was right about it being a terrible idea, if not for quite the reasons he expected. Just like he was, unfortunately, right about Schneizel.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

An hour later, Prince Schneizel el Britannia, Prime Minister of the Holy Britannian Empire, had joined her in standing before Lelouch. The room, plain as it was with only a set of vid-screens to its name—not even a chair—was not ideal ground for forming a conspiracy, but she had to take what she could get. Two hours after _that_ , she'd finally finished explaining the whole situation to Lelouch and Schneizel both. The latter had asked her many, many questions, and Lelouch had soon joined in, perhaps in an effort to keep his mind off Marianne's death, perhaps so as not to risk showing weakness or indecisiveness around his most dangerous sibling.

When at last the inquisition was over, Schneizel fell silent for a time.

"We will have to kill Odysseus and his mother," he said eventually. "Perhaps Guinevere, depending on her reaction."

Cera blinked in surprise. Lelouch was not so restrained.

" _What?_ " he almost snarled. "Why? Kill _another_ member of our family? My mother already died for this! So did Father!"

"Think about it, Lelouch," Schneizel said, unruffled. "When you go to Avalon, Britannia will need a ruler: a Regent, specifically, since I am assuming the Duchess will disappear you rather than fake your death to make reintegration easier at a later date. It is probably best if we make it seem as if I killed you, and am pretending you are still alive to make my assumption of power smoother and not alarm anyone unduly.

"Before it gets to me, however, the duty of Regent would fall to Odysseus and then Guinevere, as they are both my elders. The only exception would be if you made a decree otherwise – which would highly suspicious for several reasons. Odysseus is not a man cut out for rulership, and he knows it. But his mother does not, and she has all the ambition one would expect from a woman who became Father's first wife and only later found out she was not to be his only. They are incredibly close; if we told Odysseus about the conspiracy, he would let it slip to her, and the only thing more disastrous than that would be if we _didn't_ , and she then pushed for him to assume the throne in truth.

"We could, I suppose, simply kill her and have Odysseus abdicate, but if he ever discovered the truth, he would be our sworn enemy until the day he died, and as Crown Prince his resources are not inconsiderable if he ever decides to use them. And I confess I cannot truly predict whether he would act in his usual fashion in the madness of grief; he might well demand the throne, blame the Turians or the Systems Alliance, and throw us into a war we cannot afford to fight. We also run the risk of somebody _else_ getting to him later; his will is not exactly strong. No. It is too dangerous to do anything but eliminate the both of them.

"As for Guinevere… she would be next-in-line after Odysseus, but she is not in any fit state to rule, and if I could not predict whether Odysseus would declare against the Hierarchy in his grief should we only kill his mother, I can guarantee that Guinevere would. But she is not a fool, and if I declare my intention to become Regent just after Odysseus is killed, she may very well recognise what had happened—if not the reasons why—and abdicate in favour of her life. That is, of course, if you wish to entertain the uncertainty. Personally, I would not."

"We are not going to kill our brothers and sisters because their existence is inconvenient!"

"Stop being such a child, Lelouch." Schneizel's voice was a crack of breaking iron, harsh and sharp. " _Think_ for a moment. If you can come up with a better solution than mine, I will be more than glad to hear it. Violence should only ever be the answer if there is nothing more efficient."

"...he's right," Cera said. "I say this as the Director of Project Safehold and Viceroy of Avalon: the secret is too important to risk, Your Majesty. It must be secured at any cost."

For a very long time, Lelouch was silent. He stood there, staring at one of the vid-screens as if it alone held everything he'd ever been looking for.

Eventually, he spoke.

"Very well," he said, as quiet as murder. "Odysseus and his mother are to be killed as quickly and painlessly as an accident can be made to look like. If Guinevere does not abdicate when you make your case for regency, Schneizel, she is to join them. I expect you to make sure that she does not. Mother always taught me the importance of family, and if we must betray her like this, I would like her to despise me as little as possible."

Schneizel inclined his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Ma—Marianne would have done the same if she'd had to, Lelouch." It was the first time Cera had risked using his name out loud.

"Perhaps," he said, almost musing, "but I expect Mother would have hated herself for it too."

He looked up from the vid-screen, looking at her and Schneizel in turn. "You have your tasks. Now get out. I'm going to see Nunnally."

Cera bowed. So did Schneizel, though less deeply. She left with him behind her.

As always, there was much to be done, and little time to do it in.

 **TIE**

 **Camelot**

 **Holy Britannian Empire**

 **Avalon, REDACTED, REDACTED**

 **June 27th, 2165 [8 AH]**

It was a strange thing, learning war. Not grand strategy or short-term tactics—those came easily to Lelouch, like he was a four-dimensional existence in a three-dimensional world, able to see it from angles no other could comprehend—but the raw cut-and-thrust of combat. His mother had been a starfighter pilot before she'd married his father, one of the best Britannia had; that same father had been monstrously tall and even stronger than he looked. The two of them should have produced a child born for the battlefield.

Lelouch, however, was slender, almost fragile-looking, and had no particular instinct for shooting, swords, or hand-to-hand. A few years of on-and-off training had made him passable, and he expected that by the time his body had finished growing, he might even be good. But any common soldier was good. His mother had been _brilliant_ , and it was all he could do to stand in her shadow, straining to meet the edges.

That was why he was here, at three in the morning, pushing the latest-generation Prothean Combat Frame—more commonly known by the nickname the engineers had given them, Knightmares—through its paces like he'd been doing for the past four hours. As their official designation indicated, Knightmares were a Prothean invention, designed in the early days of the war to allow a single soldier to combat even the largest Reaper constructs. Lelouch wasn't exactly sure if the galaxy would face anything like what the Protheans had called Tarrasques this time around, but he could imagine Reaperised Krogan, and he'd prefer his soldiers fought them from within the armoured cockpit of a three-metre tall heavy mech than not.

Knightmares were expensive, and the Reapers had eventually crippled the Prothean's manufacturing capabilities beyond the ability to create and maintain them on an industrial scale – but that was why Lelouch had not countermanded his father's order to develop them _now_ , while they still had time.

Apparently his mother had been one of the test pilots, too. The best they had on record. Yet another thing to live up to, but Lelouch didn't mind. Memories were all he and Nunnally had left of her, and who was he to resent what form they took?

Well, perhaps he resented them a _little_ right now, but that wasn't his fault. How on Earth had she been able to make the Ganymede—the very first test model—actually _kick?_ He was piloting a Glasgow, three generations more advanced, and yet it seemed a fundamentally impossible exercise. Knightmares needed balance, and they did not and could not match the full range of human movement.

Her notes had suggested that she was trying to come up with a way to perform a full-body spinning roundhouse, but that was just ridiculous.

After a few more fruitless attempts—the controls seemed more sluggish than usual, but that was probably the sleep deprivation talking—he decided to call it a night. Tomorrow (today, technically) he had a meeting with Schneizel to discuss Britannia's future expansion plans. They needed more territory, more _resources_ , but at the moment not even the Alliance had been given permission to start colonising anywhere new.

There were reports from his intelligence division that the Council were considering opening up the Skyllian Verge to human expansion, which sounded like a magnanimous kindness until you realised it would pit them directly against the Batarians. It was the sort of move he expected the asari had proposed: a blade-edged gift. Be seen as forgiving and willing to let younger races grow while using one of your own rogue states—what with the state-mandated slavery and piracy and all that—to act as a check-and-buffer if humanity tried to grow too quickly, or perhaps at all.

To be fair, it was just as likely that it wasn't a punishment aimed at _humanity_ , and that was just a convenient side-benefit – the Turians were probably looking for an excuse to chastise the Batarians for the way they behaved, and if the Batarians attacked or raided a Systems Alliance colony, well, they were basically a Turian protectorate in all but name. The Turians would be perfectly within their rights to remind the Batarians that at the end of the day, it was a very stupid idea to antagonise the most powerful military force in the galaxy.

(The Reapers didn't really count… yet).

Either way, it didn't particularly matter. Britannia couldn't afford not to take advantage of the freedom to colonise—even if it galled him that they _needed_ permission, especially from a Council of murderers—so if the opportunity arose, Schneizel had to take it. He couldn't push for it, couldn't be seen to be desperate, but by the end of the next year, Britannia needed to be putting boots on the soil of distant worlds. Naturally, Schneizel would know that, but Lelouch was Emperor, and that meant he had to give the orders, even if they were obvious.

Being Emperor, he had found, was _mostly_ about giving the obvious orders.

Stepping out of the Glasgow, he walked across the hangar floor with the sort of exaggerated care common among the tired and the drunk, and slapped the door-panel open. Standing on the other side was, of course, the Duchess Cera, Viceroy of Avalon, Director of Project Safehold, and someone he really didn't have the time or inclination to deal with even when he wasn't exhausted. _Great._

"What are you doing here, Your Majesty?" she asked. She was always so stiff, so formal, like a doll someone had only partially taught to be human. It wouldn't even be that disturbing except for the fact Lelouch _knew_ there was a person underneath that porcelain skin. He'd seen her smile, laugh, cry, and on one particular occasion he'd like to burn out of his mind with a starship thruster, kiss his mother like she was trying to swallow her.

But that part of her, it seemed, had died with Marianne vi Britannia. It wasn't even satisfying to hate her anymore, because most days it felt like she was barely a caricature. There was no Cera anymore – just the Duchess. The Director. Something as cold and empty as the space between stars.

"Isn't it obvious?" he replied. "I was practicing in the Glasgow."

"You are the Emperor, Your Majesty. You will never be fighting in a Glasgow. You should never be fighting at all."

"The _Krogan_ will never follow a leader who doesn't step foot on the battlefield, and we'll need them. You know that – you were the one who organised my training in the first place."

"Oh." She blinked. "So I was."

Lelouch frowned. "If the treatments are having effects like that, you need to mention it. At the risk of sounding hypocritical, we can't afford to make mistakes at the moment. The procedure must be perfected or we'll be running into risks far more dangerous than even the Reapers arriving tomorrow."

"I know," she said. Her voice was almost curt – the first sign of emotion he'd seen out of her in months. "I've already had you back up all the data somewhere I can't access and don't know about, I picked my watchers from the guards and scientists who hate me the most so they'll report on the slightest thing out of the usual in the hopes of getting me removed from my job or executed, and our technicians have overwritten all my command codes with yours so you can countermand anything I might try to do if things go wrong. There's already a report on your desk about the sudden bouts of memory loss."

"I'll read it after I've finished with Schneizel." An Emperor was never wrong, so Lelouch suppressed his urge to apologise. "Did you come just to see what I was doing?"

It was an awkward shift of topic, but he couldn't think of anything better to ask on the spot.

"Yes," she said. "It's rather unusual for you to be alone in a hangar this early in the morning, Your Majesty, so I came the moment I was informed. You should be in bed."

Lelouch didn't bother to point out the same to her in return. She seemed to have adopted the philosophy that she'd sleep when she was dead – which only made the irony of her being a test subject for the Code stronger.

"You caught me on the way there," he said, because an Emperor only took advice—never orders—and also because it was true. "Is there anything you need to bring to my attention, while you're here?"

"Only the onset of memory problems, but that's in the report."

"Then goodnight, Duchess." His voice was not polite, but it was not rude either. "I will talk to you again tomo—later today."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

As Lelouch strode away, he wondered if maybe it would have been better if she'd tried to mother him, like he'd imagined she was going to try in the beginning.

He would have hated it – but at least hate felt better than guilt.

 **TIE**

 **Pendragon**

 **Holy Britannian Empire**

 **Earth, Sol System, Carcerem Cluster**

 **June 25th, 2166 [9 AH]**

Guinevere de Britannia woke, as she so often did, to the sound of thunder and her mother's screams. She blinked, once, twice, three times until the memory cleared, and turned to the side. Her latest conquest—the wrong word, perhaps, given the way he'd thrown himself at her like they always did—was still sleeping, and she allowed herself a moment to contemplate his future.

She'd probably keep him for a few days more; he was certainly attentive, and made the most adorable little squeaks when the ropes got too tight. Guinevere honestly couldn't remember whose son he was, or what the parents who had no doubt encouraged him even wanted – something to investigate later. She had to reward them _sometimes_ , or else they'd never bother to seek her favour in the first place, and where would she be then?

Slipping out of bed with sated grace, she threw on a robe and padded to her office. Her chief maid, Rayn-something, had left a reminder on her desk – she had a meeting with Schneizel in three hours, which left her just enough time to make herself presentable.

Guinevere didn't know what her brother wanted, and that worried her. Truth be told, _Schneizel_ worried her. By all accounts, he was the weakest leader Britannia had ever had, bending over backwards at the slightest provocation from any of the Empire's enemies. And yet, like clockwork, once every couple of months she'd receive yet another implicit offer of support to overthrow him from her... _friends_ amongst the Alliance and the Hierarchy.

Her brother was a worthless excuse for a man—nothing like their father had been—but if she called every favour she'd been promised, she'd apparently have half the Citadel and their bootlickers lining up for a shot at removing him.

Hah. The only people she hated more than the imbeciles in the Systems Alliance were the Turians holding their leashes, and if they wanted nothing more than Schneizel gone? They could all go fuck themselves. His reign as Regent, or 'Prime Minister' as he preferred to be addressed—fancy political doublespeak to hide the fact he was the Emperor by any metric she cared to name—was as secure as Guinevere could make it, no matter how much she might dislike the way he went about it.

Flicking off her holo-pad, she walked into her ensuite, where a bevy of maids awaited. Heaven forbid that Guinevere wash or dress herself – she was the First Princess of the Britannian Empire, the next Regent-Empress-whatever if Schneizel died, and such mundanity was beneath her. Her plaything would probably wake in the next hour or so, but somebody would take care of that until she next wanted to see him. Right now, she had more important concerns, like whether she should wear imperial purple to show her loyalty to her family, or mourning black in honour of her father's death on this very day almost a decade earlier.

Eventually, she decided on the purple – Charles had been everything an Emperor should have been, and an Emperor had no time for children. Only his youngest had ever really loved him. Schneizel knew that, and she felt no need to lie about how much she missed the man.

By then, her hair had almost finished drying, and one of her maids was busy towelling her body down. The towel was soft and fluffy, and probably worth more than some small air-cars, but the colour reminder her of Turian blood.

"Fetch me another, girl," she said, short and sharp. "Throw that one out. It's hideous."

The maid scurried away, as mouselike as her hair. Good help was hard to find, but Raynelle, Revela, Rydthia, whatever her name was, trained them well. She hadn't had to fire a servant in months.

Soon enough it was time to meet Schneizel. Guinevere, for once, would go to him; normally her appointments came to her, but Schneizel was the only person in the whole of Britannia who truly outranked her. She did what she could to hint at dissent between them—all the better to give their enemies someone to rally to, so they did not go looking for those who might _truly_ rebel—but there was no point being that petty.

She'd just storm out of the meeting later, and complain about him to servants. Spies infested this palace, and somebody would find out they'd apparently had an argument later. Certainly at least one of her maids was in the employ of the Alliance, another belonged to the Hierarchy, and she'd cut her hair to her shoulders if the STG weren't reading both of their reports at some point along the line. It didn't really bother her. Let them watch. It was always more exciting that way.

Guinevere did not bother to announce herself when she reached Schneizel's section of the palace – she was expected, and even if she hadn't been, nobody would get in her way. Except maybe Maldini, but Schneizel's majordomo was nowhere to be found. Unsurprising; he was probably busy kowtowing to someone on Schneizel's behalf. No wonder her brother kept him around, considering how much experience he had being on his knees.

(She very much doubted that was why, considering the man's reputation, but it was nice to imagine Schneizel had a human side. And Maldini _was_ very pretty, for a servant.)

She strode towards his private office, passing servants and courtiers and guards. An idle part of her mind—the one that had never quite left Terra Nova, that remembered Marianne vi Britannia—wondered if any of them would try to kill her today. Hopefully not. She had a dress fitting tomorrow, and her tailor was very, very good with his hands.

When the doors clicked open in front of her, Schneizel wasn't there. How dare h—well, at least she wouldn't have to make something up when she complained to her maids later. Guinevere had been polite enough to arrive on time, and she did not appreciate being made to _wait_.

With nothing better to do, she sat down on the couch, lounging across it with the sort of indolent grace that rumour said had made her millions as a certain kind of model. Most might have taken that as an insult, but it was Guinevere who'd started those rumours in the first place. Let them dream of the soft curves of her body and never know the sharp edges of her heart.

A few minutes later, just as Guinevere was about to relieve her boredom by sending a guard to fetch her a glass of Schneizel's prize bourbon, the door opened.

"Good afternoon, Guinevere," said the man himself. "I do apologise for the late arrival; I had to see the Turian ambassador off."

The Turians. It always came back to the _fucking_ Turians.

"Hello, brother," she said, as polite as poison. "How goes pretending you don't run the Empire?"

Schneizel smiled, soft and inoffensive. Everything about him was soft and inoffensive. Her bathmat stood up to people better than he did. That was what scared her the most: half this accursed galaxy apparently wanted him off the throne he claimed not to occupy, and Guinevere didn't have the slightest inkling why.

"I am not pretending anything," he said mildly. "I am the Prime Minister, duly elected to lead our great nation through its transition to a more enlightened form of government."

She scoffed. "You elected yourself into a role you invented. Come now, my lord Regent—sorry, I mean my lord Prime Minister—we all know you're just trying to pretend you don't have one foot on the throne and the other poised to kick away anyone else who wants it."

Schneizel raised an eyebrow. "Even if I was, as you say, the Regent, I would merely be holding the throne until the rightful heir came of age and returned to us. And if I were to… _kick_ anyone away, well, they would not have had a claim in the first place."

"Ah, yes, the rightful heir. The mysterious _Emperor Lelouch_ ," Guinevere replied. "Our little brother. Favoured despite being one of the youngest. A boy whose face I haven't seen in almost five years. You'll forgive me for questioning if he truly exists. Did the aliens do away with him like they did Marianne, or was it you, like poor Odysseus?"

It was a dangerous question. It was a dangerous _conversation._ But Schneizel did not act without reason. Without premeditation. He wouldn't come for her until he'd looked to see who'd put her up to this – and when the conversations she'd recorded happened to slip into his hands, he'd find them too. If there was any sense in Schneizel's head, he'd know who gave them up, and she'd be safe again. For now.

Still – it wasn't like the answer really mattered, so perhaps she should make that clear.

Guinevere sighed, waving away Schneizel's half-formed reply. "I suppose it's not important. You might as well be Emperor anyway. Who am I to question you, brother?"

"My elder sister," Schneizel said. His voice was light. Affable, even. "First Princess of the Holy Britannian Empire. Who else could but the one in line to take everything should I fall?"

That sounded an awful lot like a threat. Was _that_ why Schneizel had called her in here? To tell her that he was aware of her 'ambitions'? Did he not know everything she'd done for him? Did he truly believe she wanted his throne? She'd thought him smarter than that.

"So my friends in the Systems Alliance and the Hierarchy like to remind me."

"I hadn't realised they'd grown so bold."

"Their boldness was never in question, brother. Only yours. Your foreign policy is so forgiving you might as well have wrapped up the Attican Traverse in a pretty little bow and signed the accompanying card, with the way you gifted it to the Alliance. I told you a year ago that the chance was coming, and six months after the Council opened it for mining Britannia has not even _submitted_ _a proposal for permission!_ "

For a moment, silence. Then Guinevere sighed, long and slow, and her rage left her like she'd breathed it out as air, replaced by the cool, dismissive disregard that she wore even before her clothes. She was a _proper_ princess, not a brute like Cornelia or a insipid fool like Euphemia, and she was always in control.

"Let us be honest, Schneizel. You are a man who couldn't be faster to bow and scrape when the Citadel comes calling, and years of snubs from the Alliance gone unanswered are not even the weakest things about your rule. All you have to your name is the strength of our economy, but you refuse to _do_ anything with it, and so Britannia languishes yet again behind her enemies. Even some of the nobility want you gone, brother, to say nothing of the commoners."

It was pathetic. Schneizel bowed to those Guinevere would destroy, and so Britannia survived – but it did not _live_. If she ruled, the Batarians would be less than ash, she would have sent the Turian ambassador home in a box, and she would have delivered the Systems Alliance's to Arcturus in pieces shot from the main cannon of the _Emperor Charles_.

The war would be short, and all the more vicious for it. Britannia would fight. Britannia would die. And if they ever found _her_ pieces, there certainly wouldn't be enough left to fill a box. Guinevere was many things, but she knew exactly what her rule would be like, and that was why she didn't.

Once, she might have thought differently, but the Humiliation had taught her a very personal lesson about the glories of war. When you sat scared, shivering, _starving_ under the rubble left behind by Turian artillery, survival was all you had. No – Schneizel's Britannia was pathetic, but so was the girl who cowered in the dark as she clutched the only remaining arm of her only remaining protector. The girl who sometimes wondered if she'd ever left that darkness at all.

"Even the nobility," Schneizel mused, interrupting her thoughts. "Interesting. And you, sister?"

She snorted. It was surprisingly inelegant, coming from a woman who spent three hours every morning straightening her hair _just_ right.

"No. Never." Guinevere turned her head to stare him in the eyes, and did not look away. Let him see her. Let him _know_. "A life where all I have to do is be beautiful, spend money, and take advantage of all the pretty boys our enemies throw at me in the hopes I'll forget fire in the sky and the smell of my mother's corpse? I have nearly everything I want, brother, and ruling Britannia will not give me the rest."

For a long moment, Schneizel was silent. Then he smiled. There was nothing soft or inoffensive about it.

"Come with me, Guinevere. There's someone I think you'll want to meet."

"Oh?" There was the steel she'd seen in him in the months after Marianne's assassination. The steel that had slain Odysseus all those years ago, and convinced her to retract her claim before he could do it for her. Guinevere drew herself up off the couch. "I hope this won't take too long. My chambers aren't exactly empty, you realise."

Schneizel chuckled. "Are they ever?"

Guinevere tilted her head to the side, considering. "Fair point."

Her brother led her through the door at the other end of his office, the one that lead to his bedroom. For a second, she wondered if he was planning to introduce her to his secret lover, as unlikely as that would be. Cornelia would win the bet if it was Maldini.

Instead, however, he took her into a secret passage that was connected to his closet. It wound down and down in a spiralling circle, almost dizzying. The stairway was cramped and dark, the walls falling in on her from every angle. Their footsteps echoed like gunshots. Her hands shook as she called up her omni-tool, her fingers furiously desperate. She fumbled through the commands three times before the device finally spat out a pair of drones—little more than glorified light-bulbs—to hover around her shoulders.

Schneizel turned to look at her with nothing but polite curiosity.

"I'm _fine_ ," she snapped. "Considering the Liscelles have gone out of business, these shoes can't be replaced. I refuse to embarrass myself by stumbling in this godforsaken tunnel and breaking a heel."

Like all the best lies, it was even true.

After far too many—two—minutes, they arrived at a door that only opened after Schneizel submitted to what looked like a blood test, a retina scan, entered a password into a keypad, and spoke another aloud. It'd sounded like something from Shakespeare, possibly _The Merchant of Venice_. Guinevere didn't really care. Breathe in. Breathe out.

The door closed after them, and she and Schneizel stood in a small room, dominated by a holographic projector hooked up to something she didn't recognise. Ignoring her, he stepped over to it, and started tapping away at the keyboard. That was fine.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

The door clicked open again—like the safety of a rifle—and she spun, barely wrenching herself away from the instinctive urge to run, to hide. Guinevere sighed in relief, too soft for Schneizel to hear. It was only the Knight of One.

"What are you doing here, Michele?" she asked. "I doubt you're the mystery Schneizel wants me to meet."

"My lady, my lord," Michele Manfredi said, bowing to her and Schneizel in turn. The steel of his cybernetic arm glinted in the light. "Prince Schneizel requested my presence, Princess."

"Oh? And why was that, Schneizel?"

"The Knight of One should always be present to hear his liege speak."

That was not Schneizel's voice.

Guinevere turned, and saw impossibility.

"Hello, sister," said Lelouch vi Britannia in all his flickering, holographic glory.

She stared at him. No. What— _what the fuck_. This made no sense. This was wrong. This could _destroy_ Britannia if it was ever found out. Why would they bring her in here? Of course she deserved to know, she was _Guinevere de Britannia_ and how _dare_ they keep this secret from her, but they had no guarantees that sh— _oh_.

Michele Manfredi was behind her. The door was behind him. This room only had one exit. His sword had been on his hip when he'd come in, and she'd seen him beat a Turian to death with only one arm. She remembered what its blood had felt like, splattering on her face.

Lelouch watched her impassively, but she couldn't see him.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Michele laid a hand on her shoulder, softly, gently. Guinevere wrenched herself away and almost stumbled to the floor. No. _No_. She was better than this. She'd spent a third of her life trying to be better than this. She was the Crown Princess of the Holy Britannian Empire and if she was going to die it was going to be with some fucking _dignity_.

Guinevere drew herself to her full height, channeling every inch of the poise bred into her by a royal heritage two thousand years in the making – and knelt, one fist pressed against her chest.

"Ave, Imperator," she said. Her voice broke slightly. "Morituri te salutant."

 _Hail, Emperor. Those who are about to die salute you._

"Pretty words, Guinevere," Lelouch said, "but you have served me well in the past, and I may still have use of you yet."

She stood. It was a breach of protocol, but this situation was a breach of sanity anyway.

"Served you? I thought Schneizel had _killed_ you until a minute ago."

Lelouch smiled. It was every inch the smile of an emperor, amused and knowing and sharp as a knife.

"Do not imagine you have secrets from me, Guinevere. Do not imagine you could have come so far without my help. You serve as a rallying point for all of Britannia's enemies, all those who would depose Schneizel and ruin everything he has built by my command. I read every report that crosses your desk. I know everyone you've spoken to, every word they've said. Some of them you would never have even met had I not guided them to your door. You are the bait in a trap only six people know has been set – and, like all the best bait, you have always thought it was entirely your idea."

"No. Fuck you. I do what I do because I want to. Because I chose to." She thrust a finger toward him. Her hand shook, half with fury, half with fear. "I keep Britannia safe from all the jumped-up idiots who think they can twist me to their whims because _I am the one in control!_ "

"You have certainly done an excellent job of it," Lelouch said. His smile softened, just slightly. Perhaps he'd seen something in her expression. "And your plan to get yourself 'elected' as Foreign Minister is a masterstroke. A snub to Schneizel's apparent favoured candidate, a way to further ingratiate yourself with all the—fittingly—foreign influences who want to destabilise his rule, and guaranteed status in a reformed Britannia where nobility is not a path to power. But tell me: did you ever wonder why, say, the Harringtons promised to support you?"

He cut off her reply—not that she'd known what she was even going to say when she opened her mouth—with a raised hand.

"Of course you did. You're smarter than people give you credit for; not a genius of war or politics like Cornelia or Schneizel, but no child of Charles zi Britannia is an _abject_ fool. Be glad for it, sister – it means you're clever enough to be useful, but not enough to be a threat."

Guinevere clenched her fists. "And what use is that? Going back to being your—your puppet?"

"Do the strings really hurt more when you know they exist?" His voice was musing. "I would have thought it was the opposite. But no, Guinevere. Now that you know I still rule this empire—and that it is, indeed, _still an empire_ —there are far greater purposes for you to serve. You are not satisfied with the way Britannia cowers beneath her foes. Neither am I. And there are things out there in the howling dark that would terrify even our enemies if they had the sense to see them.

"The Protheans are dead. You know that. Everyone does. But what killed them still lives. And it is _coming_. I will tell you now, sister, that I do not intend to make Britannia strong enough that it never need fear the Hierarchy again. I intend to make the _galaxy_ strong enough that it will survive the reaping. All the Turian fleets combined would not scratch the one the Protheans called Harbinger – but it will be Britannia's blade that slays him. It will be Britannia that forges the spear, and it will be Britannia that leads the charge.

"And then, when everything is over and the war is won, it will be Britannia that sits in judgement of those who remain."

Lelouch looked at her, his gaze searing her skin like plasma. She flattened a hand against the side of her thigh, pressing fabric against flesh, but the scar was gone. Of course it was. It had been for years.

"There _will_ be a reckoning. And you will help me start it, Guinevere. Soon, a man called Nicolai—Nicolai Alvin Hubert—will get into contact with you. He will want help establishing a presence in Britannia for his company, and to make use of your connections to begin marketing his products throughout the galaxy. You will offer him all the help you can, become a public partner in his business, and make sure to brag about how you got in first over Schneizel. Do not worry about the cost – no matter what you have to spend, you will find your investment returned tenfold once people understand what he is selling."

"Why?" She hated how soft her voice was. How _cowed_.

On the hologram, Lelouch's own omni-tool glowed, projecting the letters _Nicolai Alvin Hubert_ before a flick of his wrist rearranged them to _Lelouch vi Britannia_.

"The time has come for me to step onto the chessboard. If the king does not lead, how can he expect his subordinates to follow?"

He dismissed his omni-tool and spoke again.

"Manfredi, leave us. I have more to explain, but your absence will soon be noted. You may remain, Schneizel."

"Yes, my lord," Michele said, bowing. "Farewell, my prince, my princess."

After he'd left the room, and the door had shut, Lelouch turned back to Guinevere.

"You know what I want you to do, sister, but I think you would find it easier to cooperate if you knew the why – why the galaxy thinks I'm dead, why Schneizel rules Britannia, why the secrecy and the lies and everything else. I mentioned it before, but now I will take the time to explain properly. So: have you heard of the Reapers?"

She shook her head. "No."

"I didn't expect you to. They make quite an effort of killing everyone and everything that ever has. The secret history of the galaxy takes some time to explain, Guinevere; I hope your shoes are comfortable."

They weren't.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: And here we are. The Jingo updated** _ **Chasing Yesterday**_ **all those months ago, and we have finally fulfilled our end of the bargain. (Mostly because of how long it took Magery to get around to editing this beast. Ssh. Don't tell anyone).**

 **For those panicky few—you'll know the section when you read it—no, a little exploration doesn't confirm a ship. You know who we are. We have other plans.**

 **As always, enjoy, and tell us what you think.**

* * *

 **Pendragon**

 **Holy Britannian Empire**

 **Earth, Sol System, Carcerem Cluster**

 **October 7th, 2166 [9 AH]**

"We're about to arrive, Ambassador."

Idrissa Artenis turned her head slightly from her view out the window of her aircar, just enough to acknowledge her driver, before returning back to her thoughts.

When she had chosen to become a member of the diplomatic corps after almost a century and a half of soldiering, she'd known that she was exchanging one battlefield for another. As a commando, she could solve most of her problems with the right application of firepower, but the game of diplomacy required a far more comprehensive arsenal—which was part of the reason she'd decided to get into it. There were only so many times you could do the same thing to deal with the same set of issues before it became staid and boring.

However, if her younger self had known that her skillsets (and, if she was really honest, her expendability) would eventually land her the job as the Council's Ambassador to the Britannian Empire, she would have likely chosen to remain a commando. There was no way she _could_ have known—when she retired, humanity as a whole was a decade and a half from even being heard of—but the point remained.

If humanity was a troublesome species as a whole, however, then the Britannians were the stuff of frustrated nightmares. Ever since their secession from the Systems Alliance, the Turians (and to a lesser extent, the Council) had had their hands full trying to both contain and make sense of the unique brand of madness that the Britannians seemed to ascribe to.

At the heart of that madness was the man who had summoned her this evening—Prince Schneizel el Britannia.

As her aircar came to a stop, she took a moment to gather herself while the door was opened for her. This would be only the third time she would be personally meeting with the man, usually having to deal with his proxies, or more often than not, his majordomo. Each time had felt more steeped in tension than the last, and she always left them convinced she'd lost some sort of exchange she didn't remember fighting.

Idrissa stepped out of the aircar, studying the massive stone edifice of the Clare li Britannia Opera House. Striding forward, she noted the security detail that had already been in position for her—at the centre of the formation was the gatekeeper to the one she'd been summoned to meet.

If you took away the ostentatious clothing and title, Kanon Maldini could easily blend into whatever and wherever he pleased. He was so good at being plain that she sometimes found it hard to remember that this was Schneizel's pet monster—despite a century of training to fight (and fighting alongside) monsters of her very own. A former assassin, this was the man the STG believed was responsible for not only killing the ruling family, but also Perenelle and Odysseus eu Britannia. How Schneizel had acquired his services was still unknown, though there was a belief that the two were lovers.

"Ambassador Artenis, if you will follow me, Prince Schneizel is waiting in the Royal Box."

There wasn't much more to be said; she merely acknowledged it with a serene nod of the head and followed after him. It wasn't long until she found herself in what was colloquially referred to as the "Regent's Box", the second most valuable box in the opera house after the Emperor's Box.

Without a second glance from Maldini, he left, leaving her alone with the man who, by all rights, was the Emperor of Britannia. No matter what he officially claimed otherwise.

"Please, sit down, Ambassador," was Schneizel's request, though to her trained ears it came across more as a subtle command. His voice had the sort of accidental gravity you found in most matriarchs—or old Krogan. She'd met a few Turians and one particularly spectacular Salarian who could compare, but never another human.

She finished sitting down almost before she noticed she'd started. Schneizel was yet to look at her, instead intent on the opera. Then he spoke again.

"I am to understand that the Systems Alliance has been granted colonization rights to the Attican Traverse, Ambassador."

 _How did he know?_ she thought to herself, years of experience the only thing keeping her from showing any reaction to the declaration. She had just received the notification an hour ago in an emergency communique from fact that Britannia already knew the ruling before it had been made public was worrisome—it suggested that their communications were compromised.

"The announcement will be made tomorrow," she finally replied, knowing that there was no point in obfuscating the truth. Now was for damage control. With the Attican Traverse opened to the the Systems Alliance, the Britannian Empire would find itself falling behind.

That was, after all, the point. The Turians were seeking to prevent the Britannians from expanding, hopefully setting the stage for it to wither and die economically to a point where it could be reabsorbed back into the Systems Alliance. It wouldn't work, of course—it would be a cold day in hell before the Britannians relented and rejoined the fold of their own will. But they'd be weakened; perhaps over time _so_ weakened that it would practically be the Alliance (and the Hierarchy's) duty to save them from themselves.

Schneizel didn't react to her statement. Instead, she was met with silence, broken only by the booming baritone of the lead reverberating through the opera house.

"I've always had a respect for the arts, Ambassador," Schneizel eventually said, still refraining from looking to her, "art, music, literature, each has a unique story to tell or a lesson to be learned. If there is one thing Charles zi Britannia taught any of us, it was that without culture, there is no difference between that vaunted concept of humanity and a base animal."

"I see."

His head turned slightly, taking a moment to look at her, before returning back to stare out onto the stage. It was as if he was saying that he didn't believe that she could.

"Take Don Giovanni for example—a comedic, yet cautionary tale of excess and arrogance. Despite being four hundred years old, it has as much bearing today as it did back then, and likely will another four hundred years into the future."

This time, he looked directly at her.

"Especially in regards to the Citadel Council."

It took a moment for her to register what he had just accused the political entity that maintained the peace in the known galaxy of being. This was not how diplomacy usually went—not in general, and certainly not with Schneizel. When it _did_ register, however, she was quick to respond.

"While I can understand how your perception of the Citadel Council may be colored by the history that exists between itself and the Empire, you have perhaps misconstrued the intent of the Council. The Council has the best interests of its client races at heart."

It was a simplistic overview of what the Council provided, but that was the party line.

"Is it truly altruism if one is to benefit from it more than the recipient of said altruism, Ambassador? For almost a decade, the Council has made it a priority to contain humanity as punishment for supposed crimes it was not even aware of committing in a conflict instigated by the Turian Hierarchy. What has suddenly changed that they would abandon such policy?"

His lips twisted into a wintry grin.

"There's a saying our race has when investigating policy decisions, Ambassador: follow the money. I imagine you have your own equivalent. It's crude, in this case, but effective. What benefit do the Council Races gain from opening the Attican Traverse to the Systems Alliance to settle?"

His index finger uncurled.

"First, we have the Turian Hierarchy. The quasi-annexation of humanity hasn't been as profitable as the Primarchs have wanted, as the report that General Arterius will be submitting next week will show. In fact, it has instead been operating at a loss since Britannia seceded, between our lost potential revenue and the extra resources required to make sure we're behaving now that we've proven politically hostile. With the Traverse being opened to human exploitation, they can legitimately claim that the Systems Alliance has been reformed in the eyes of the Council, and thus draw back a significant amount of their forces."

A second finger.

"The Salarians gain additional funding for their STG to keep an eye upon humanity now that the Turians have mostly withdrawn. We are quite primitive, by your standards—they'll get more than they need, and spend less than they thought. That frees up budget room elsewhere, which is always a good thing."

Finally, his third finger uncurled.

"Then there is the Asari. On the surface, it appears they gain nothing from convincing the Salarians to side with the Turians. That is, until you realize that this choice only affirms their self-entitled role as the only important vote on the Citadel. It helps reinforce the—rightful, if we're honest—image that if you _really_ want to get something done politically, you go to the Asari first. But even deeper than that, the Republics amass more of what they want: power. Humanity now _owes_ the Asari for the Traverse, and while you will not be blatant about it, you'll make sure that the Systems Alliance is reminded of that when necessary.

"Oh. There is also the added benefit that this decision will inflame the Batarian Hegemony. The Attican Traverse has always been their backyard, in their minds at least, and the Citadel handing it to a race of two-eyes is certainly going to refocus part of their ire away from the Citadel races and toward us, relieving pressure on all three governments over the Batarian issue. And if the Traverse becomes successful, well, it only means additional wealth and prestige for the Council races through their inevitable investments in the region. This, at least, is a benefit to even humanity—except Britannia, who will be slowly strangled into economic and then actual submission. It's quite elegant, really. I'd have done much the same myself.

"The point, however, Ambassador, is this: with this in mind, is it truly altruism that the Council has decided to grant the Systems Alliance exploitation rights to the Attican Traverse, or is it self-serving policy?"

Throughout his entire speech, not once did his voice waver or change. It was always the same cool, calculating tone that could only be characterized solely as Schneizel's. His control was fascinating.

"I would think," she paused, searching for the words, hating the fact that she was caught completely on her back foot, having been unable to prepare for such a grilling, "that you are reading too much into this, Your Highness. While there may have been some considerations included in the decision outside of those that will be made public, none involved the malicious intent that you are ascribing."

It was a weak parry, of course—they both knew she was lying—but to be silent would be even worse. Again, she cursed her lack of preparation. The announcement was't going public for weeks. Months, even. She should have had time to prepare, but that was plainly not the case.

Instead of retorting like she expected, the Prime Minister merely turned back to watching the opera. For a split second, she thought it was a dismissal, until he spoke again.

"Kanon, if you would."

Idrissa noticed the man coming, but it was a near thing; if not for the faintest kiss of his boots on the carpet and the shallow thrill of tension slithering across her spine, the Prince's Majordomo would have seemingly appeared out of nowhere beside Schneizel, a manila folder in his hands. Why the Prince would be dealing in something as archaic as paper, she could only wonder.

Schneizel took the folder, and proceeded to hold it out to her. Hesitating only for a moment, she took it into her own hands, a question readily evident upon her face.

"You will find, Ambassador, on the issue of the Britannian Empire, that malicious intent is all the Council can spare for my people," he said.

A few minutes later, with trembling hands, she placed the folder down on the armrest of her chair. She couldn't believe it—not that the subject being discussed was the assassination of the former Britannian Empress, it was a theory that she could find no fault in, but that she'd been looking at _transcripts_. Not written missives, but actual conversations between figures in multiple governments, transcribed as if they were wiretapped. From when the discussion began to the final order to execute the assassination of Empress Marianne vi Britannia, all approved by members of the Citadel Council.

If this was true, and there was no doubt in her mind that it was—Schneizel was in no position to bluff the whole galaxy and get away with it—then the consequences for Citadel Council would be catastrophic. To order the murder of a sovereign leader of a nation that was nominally a part of the Citadel was inconceivable, and it would only lead to other races asking too many questions that the Citadel would not want to answer. First and second among them were _why?_ and _are we next?_

"H—how did you get ahold of this?" She had to ask, both for own benefit as much as the superiors she reported to. If the Britannians were reading Citadel communications, then such a security leak would have to be fixed.

"There are others who share our resentment with the current status quo, Ambassador. They are patriots who realize that waiting for scraps from the Council will achieve nothing—that they have to _take_."

 _The Quarians_ , she realized almost immediately.

It made sense—when it came to disenfranchised races that were disgusted with the Council, only one would go so far as to tap the Citadel and far more uniquely _have the means to do it_ would be the Quarians. With their specialty in technology, the access it could grant them to the various systems of the Citadel, and a recent racial history as itinerant vagabonds who found themselves practically anywhere doing practically anything on their Pilgrimages, it would be comparatively easy for them to infiltrate the communications security.

But that didn't help her right here and now. She had to respond to this immediately. There was a reason that Prince Schneizel was showing this to her instead of going public with it: Britannia wanted something in return for their continued silence.

"If these communications were to be verified, Prime Minister," she spoke as levelly as possible, despite the enormity of what was being discussed, "what would ensure your silence on these matters?"

"We would require that the Attican Traverse be fully opened to Britannian exploitation as well."

"That's it?" Idrissa couldn't keep the incredulity from her tone. Britannia had in their hands information that could tie up the Council for decades in a constant fight to un-smear their name, and all they wanted for it were mining and colonization rights? It wasn't so much that those rights were a small thing—they most certainly weren't—but that Schneizel could have asked for, say, right of first refusal _on_ the colonisations and future mining efforts and he'd probably get it. He could have forced the Alliance to colonise and expand only on Britannia's leftovers. Or something else of even greater magnitude.

This time, Schneizel actually looked at her, violet eyes shining in the light as Don Giovanni was dragged into hell on the stage below. It was this moment, caught both in his gaze and the symbology below, that cemented her belief that Schneizel el Britannia was far more dangerous than anyone, even herself _during this conversation_ , had truly believed. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the turning point in the relationship between Britannia and the Council.

"Contrary to what the known galaxy believes," he said, his voice as smooth as silk, "I, nor the Britannian Empire, wish to see the Citadel Council or our fellow races destroyed. Despite many of the poor policy choices that have originated from the Citadel, it still remains the best option for stability in the galaxy. What we ask for is for a fair chance to succeed."

With that, he rose—Idrissa found herself unable to match his gesture, her mind still coming to grips with the information laid upon her.

"Good evening, Ambassador."

With that, he left.

 **TIE**

 **Carhaix**

 **Holy Britannian Empire**

 **Dinas Carhaix, Arcturus Stream, Carcerem Cluster**

 **April 14th, 2167 [10 AH]**

A soft tone echoed through the room, drawing no reaction at first. It was only as the second chime sounded that there was any movement—something writhed under the blankets that dominated the bed they were upon. Finally, on the third ring, a man groaned, his hand reaching out from beneath the sheets and tapping the stub of the alarm before flopping down over the side of the bed.

It was another moment before one half of those sheets were drawn away to reveal the nude figure of a redhead—the same act dragged the rest far enough down for a shock of indigo hair to peek out under the covers on the other side. With a yawn, the man turned himself enough to allow his feet to touch down onto the carpet, rubbing the sleep from his bleary blue eyes.

The chime sounded again, and he frowned. A displeased sigh came from behind him. He reached out and picked up a small headset from the bedside table, slipping it on his ear.

"I'll call you back in a minute, Kallen. Just let me wake up first." With that, he tapped the earpiece, ending the call.

"Doesn't that girl realize what time it is?" moaned the other occupant of the bed. It was obviously a woman's voice.

Naoto Statdfeld smiled, fond and tired.

"You know how Kallen can get when she's excited by something," he turned, pulling the sheets back to reveal sharp features and a pair of rainy-blue eyes registering the fact that they were no longer covered. Pressing a kiss to the woman's lips, he continued, "kinda like a certain someone I know."

She pouted defensively. "I do not."

Chuckling slightly at his fiancee's protest, he leaned in and kissed her again, soft and short. "Big brother duties call. Don't wait for me, Cecile."

Cecile Croomy groaned and rolled over, muttering loud enough for him to hear, "Such a siscon."

Naoto laughed, getting off the bed on his side and grabbing a pair of sweatpants, drawing tight the string and tying it to protect his modesty. He reached over and picked up the wristband that was his omnitool, slipping it on before getting to his feet, his destination the kitchen.

For Naoto Stadtfeld, heir to the Stadtfeld Consortium, life could not get much better. At twenty-four years of age, he had almost everything he could ask for. He was already turning heads in the field of weaponized particle physics, so much so that his father was quite proud of his achievements, and if he could complete the project he had embarked on, there was no doubt he'd have _earned_ the right to succeed the man—as tradition dictated.

Naoto was also engaged to a beautiful and vivacious woman in the form of Miss Cecile Croomy, a fellow scientist who he had met while attending the Imperial Colchester Institute for his Master's. They had hit it off almost immediately with their shared passion for discovery and pushing the boundaries of what was believed possible. It also helped that Cecile had provided a role model for his sister, the impressionable Kallen Stadtfeld.

So it was no surprise to anyone involved that he had proposed and she accepted after their graduation, with a wedding tentatively planned for June of next year. The date might change, though, if the success on his project was as close as he had a feeling that it was.

That had been one of the conditions of being his father's heir. Like his father, and his father before him, for generations it had been the role of the successor to prove their worth by doing _something_ to further the family or company. It could be developing a technology, or maybe finding another large source of income. For example, it had been through his father that the Orbital Defense Fortress concept had been revived—and while only two had been hastily completed before the Turians had arrived to conquer Earth, they proven their worth in blood and broken battleships before finally succumbing. Progress had suffered a setback with the end of the war, but the concept had survived and thrived to where every Britannian owned world had at least two of the massive constructs, earning the Stadtfelds billions in wealth and prestige.

If _his_ project succeeded—if it worked as intended—then they'd get more than just wealth and prestige: they'd have revolutionized warfare completely.

Reaching the kitchen, he pressed the activation button on his espresso machine, intending to get some caffeine into him before sitting down at the counter and tapping the communications terminal, connecting it to the call that he had waiting.

Almost immediately, the display lit up and he found himself smiling into the image of his younger sister. Kallen had always been the family's little princess. She had been an unexpected—yet very much not unwanted—blessing for the family. After the difficulty of his pregnancy, their parents had been told that the chance of another child was incredibly slim.

Now, at fifteen years of age, Kallen was entering the stage in which the coltish awkwardness of being a teen was on the cusp of being shed from the adult that lived beneath. He had a feeling that both his father and himself would have their hands full beating back prospective suitors in a few years' time.

But right now, she looked distraught over something

"Hey Spitfire," he teased. To say that his sister was the antithesis of the prim and proper noble daughter would be like saying water was wet. Opinionated, stubborn, and unrestrained with her emotions, she forged her own path. He wouldn't have her any other way.

"Naoto," her voice cracked, eyes threatening to spill barely held back tears. Instead, she sniffled before rubbing her nose. Okay. Maybe teasing was the wrong approach.

"What's wrong, Kallen?"

"It's Jane. She's moving away!"

"Oh," he murmured, his early-morning cobwebs quickly clearing away at the import of that statement.

Being nobility, even if peerage was more laissez faire than hereditary nowadays outside of the _old_ families, made it difficult to actually accrue any true friends. Sure, you had 'friends', but they were more often than not mired in the dynamics of what the two of you could gain from the friendship than anything else.

Sometimes, however, there were exceptions.

One of them was Jane Shepard, the daughter of Viscount Johnathan Shepard II. She may as well have been be Kallen's sister (the good kind, that was) given how inseparable the two were. He had lost count over the years how many times he found them getting into some sort of mischief. The less said about the sleepovers the better, as they ended up being ordeals he had to chaperone.

"I'm sorry, Kallen. But it's not like you can't see her again."

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say—the tears that she had been holding back finally broke loose, trailing down her cheeks as she sniffled out an, "She's moving to Emrys."

 _Oh_ , Naoto thought silently to himself. It was a bigger problem than Kallen knew.

Seven months ago, it had been announced that the Attican Traverse would be opened to the Britannian Empire after it had previously only been available to the Systems' Alliance. The resulting rush by Britannia to quickly claim up as many colonies as they could had been the stuff of dreams (or nightmares depending upon who you asked).

Emrys, however, was a rather special case, and critical for the future of Britannia. Officially, it was just another colony world set in the Attican Traverse. However, to those in the know—and it was only because the fact the Stadfeld Consortium been contracted for the project that his father, and thus Naoto, knew—Emrys, as it was currently called, was the next Britannian planet in line to earn the 'Dinas' or 'Fortress' designation. What made _that_ so special, however, was that Emrys would be the first Dinas in the Attican Traverse, providing Britannian military projection into their latest territory once it was completed without having to rely on Turian-administered relays.

Of course, the less Britannia's enemies knew of that eventuality, the better—Britannia didn't want anyone to know until it was far too late to do anything about it. Politically or otherwise, militarizing the Attican Traverse at this critical juncture would be taken rather poorly. And that was ignoring the Batarian belief that the Traverse belonged to them in the first place.

However, none of that helped Naoto explain to his sister why she shouldn't be crying—or help him believe those explanations.

"Hey, you can still talk to her, Kallen," he said, not sure of what exactly he could offer to stop the waterworks, "and it's not like that changes either of your plans to apply to the Academy in a few years."

"That's not the same, Naoto, and you know that," she replied, sniffling.

No, it really wasn't, but he wasn't going to just _say_ that. The distance between Carhaix and Dinas Emrys would be a strain upon their friendship. They would no longer be attending the same school, be able to videocall on a whim. No, everything would be left to text-based messages back and forth between the two until Dinas Emrys was properly colonised—developing infrastructure was the excuse, but in truth it was for security—and for two people so at home in the physical world, a friendship reduced back to not even hearing one another's voices might be a friendship irreversibly damaged.

"What about seeing if she can stay here on Carhaix?"

Kallen shook her head.

"Jane already tried. But her father refuses to change his mind. He told her she needed a bit of roughing it she wanted to attend academy. Which is bullshit; he never had John do it. Stupid bastard just wants to split us up because he walked in—" she cut herself off, face flushed with guilt.

"Walked in on what?" he asked, then paused. If Kallen believed that someone like Viscount Johnathan Shepard II, a man known for his careful, deliberate decision-making, had decided to uproot his daughter like this when she very well _could_ have stayed on Carhaix—even with them, if necessary—then it was likely something big.

Kallen hesitated, ducking her head. She sniffled again, muttering something that the feed didn't pick up.

"What?"

"He walked in on us kissing," she snapped, cheeks flaming.

Naoto sat there for what felt like an eternity, staring at her image in mute shock. There had been a myriad of possibilities that he had considered, but he would be perfectly honest if he said he hadn't expected _that_.

He'd have sworn neither of them liked each other that way—maybe he was just getting blind in his old age. At school he'd been able to pick crushes among his friends sometimes before _they_ knew about them.

Thankfully, though, Kallen took his silence for something other than surprise and an oddly wounded ego.

"Sophie had been boasting about kissing and how she had already had a girlfriend and everything, and Jane and I were talking and Jane kinda wondered what kissing another girl would feel like. Then well…"

"Stop," he waved his hands, "just stop, Kallen. I was a teenager once, so I get it. I don't need the gory details. I'd rather not think of my sister like that. So, Jane is going to Emrys, and there's no stopping it. Let me guess—you're worried that the distance will affect your friendship?"

There was still some hesitation. Kallen looked like she was trying to switch gears. Like she hadn't quite finished explaining _everything_ that she and Jane had gotten up to before he'd interrupted. Good thing he had, then. Maybe if he believed hard enough, Kallen would return to being sweet and innocent, not luckier with girls than he'd been at her age.

"Yes," she finally said.

A hand brushed against his shoulder—Cecile had woken up properly and was handing him a cup of coffee. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, shifting up to whisper in his ear.

"Have her get Jane something. Something practical, that will make Jane think of her whenever she uses it."

She stepped away, looking into the feed, and offered a wave. "Hey Kallen."

"Hey, Cecile."

Pleasantries observed, Cecile stepped past Naoto, heading to the refrigerator—tantalizing him with the flutter of his shirt at the tips of her thighs—and opening it up while he considered her words.

What would be something Kallen could get for Jane that would be a reminder of their friendship? Something that Jane would use often…

Oh. Of course. It was easily doable, considering who they were.

"Well, if you can't change it, Kallen, why not get her a going away gift? Something that she can remember you by. Don't you both enjoy shooting and hunting? And Emrys is pretty much still a wilderness. Right?"

"Yeah?"

"Well then, there's your answer. Why don't you custom-order her one of our rifles? Have it personalized with something so that every time she takes it out, she knows in a way, you're still with her."

He knew immediately he had come up with the right idea as he watched her face light up in delight.

"Naoto. You're a genius!"

"No, I'm just working on my doctorate. Genius is next year," he quipped.

It was good to hear Kallen laugh. With his work consuming much of his time, it was difficult to find the chance to see his family nowadays. Hopefully once he completed the project, he would have the time to be there for Kallen, at least.

Speaking of which.

"How is your sch—"

Unfortunately, that was as far as he got.

Both the door to his condominium and windows all burst open; Naoto only had enough time to turn to the windows in confusion before several shadowy figures came through the openings.

He didn't even register the sounds, just the impacts. Everything disappeared in white-hot agony. Lightning sparked through his body and he jerked and flailed, nerves misfiring as he collapsed to the floor. A too-slow thought, like somebody had shaken his brain a couple of steps out of sync with the rest of him, was impressed with the way he missed the counter on the way down. That would have taken out a few of his teeth.

Distantly, he could hear Kallen screaming his name. A foot appeared in his dimming vision. Short, clipped orders were exchanged by whoever his attackers were, and he was suddenly picked up. He couldn't feel where they held him. As he was lugged over the shoulder of one of the men, he caught sight of Cecile being turned face up and left where she lay.

He couldn't tell if she was breathing.

Kallen screamed his name one last time before they decided to cut the link.

 **TIE**

Spectre Saemaw Baeluse was perplexed—a feeling he was both unaccustomed to and loathed in general. To be perplexed meant that something had worked against his expectations. In his business, that got people killed. And that wasn't even most of why he hated it.

Yet, despite his disdain for it, he was, without a doubt, perplexed.

In any other situation, he'd have discarded the reason why as nothing but overanalysis of an already-illogical situation.

But he couldn't. Not over something like this. Thus, he reviewed what he knew, and researched what he didn't. Every hour drove him from perplexed to wary and then to warier—it wasn't that the information didn't fit what he knew because it was illogical or unfinished.

It was because it was _wrong_.

He was a Salarian who prided himself on making sure that everything was right. To have something, _anything_ , wrong was a complete failure of professionalism.

So that left him contacting the only person who might be able to right the wrong he felt was about to take place.

"Councilor Tevos," he greeted the hologram that appeared before him, "thank you for taking the time to meet with me."

If there was one Councilor who epitomized the balance the Citadel Council strove to stand for, it was Seyelnia Tevos. The Asari representative to the Citadel Council, she had gained a reputation as the heart of the Council, serving largely as the swing vote that determined the true course of galactic policy. Fair, yet with a mind that was unquestionably keen, she had been privately outspoken about to the current status quo in regards to the treatment of humanity.

"Unfortunately, time is a precious commodity that I am currently limited upon, Operative," came her response, "and if you hadn't informed me of the subject matter, I would not be talking with you."

"Of course. I'll get straight to the point then, Councilor. After reviewing all the relevant data in regards to the Stadtfeld case, I have determined there is a high probability that we are mistaken in our conclusions."

Although the hologram connection was not the best, there was no mistaking Tevos' expression—she was not happy with his observation. Then again, she had every right to be incensed.

Since the arrest of Naoto Stadtfeld, Britannia has been inundating the Council with demands for the return of the man, claiming that the charges were false; that they were made up in an effort to harm the Stadtfeld Consortium, and by extension Britannian interests. As it drew closer to the start of the actual tribunal, they had only become more vociferous.

"Explain," came the terse demand. Normally her voice was never anything but smooth.

"During the latest interrogation, Stadtfeld was able to discern the interrogation subject—bomb-pumped laser design." Tevos started to narrow her eyes, and Saemaw sped up. "He became agitated. Cited bomb-pumped laser concept as inefficient. Power and equipment requirements for sufficient electromagnetic bottling outstrips cost-benefit ratios for practical use or miniaturization. Dead end concept."

"That's damning evidence, Spectre. It shows he's done, or at least knows about, research on using nuclear detonations to fuel an enhanced laser system."

"Truth. However, Stadtfeld's words resulted in deeper problem. Comparison between thesis paper upon concentrated microwave energy and military applications thereof. Nowhere in Master's thesis mention of bomb-enhancement."

"Things can change from a mere thesis. Perhaps he decided that the usage of microwave energy would not work, and moved onto what he's accused of. It is evident in his own files and notes that he was looking at an alternative and was close to a breakthrough on nuclear enhancements."

She was right. All of the evidence was there in the notes and files they had gleaned from Stadtfeld's personal computer.

"Notes are not those of Stadtfeld," he declared, "notes and research method similar as to appear to be Stadtfeld's, but not exact. Have compared to other documents not related to current project. Certain that project documents tampered with. Unknown reason why. Suspicious, as Stadtfeld is only source of evidence into illegal project."

"Are you certain?"

"Would not be contacting you otherwise. Worse. Reason now to believe that tipoff was likely setup in order for third party to gain access to scientists that Britannia claims we have in our possession. Scientists are missing from _all_ records; STG can't locate."

Which was even more troubling. Not the idea of a third party, as there were always outside actors who looked to take advantage of situations like this. The idea of a third party that was able to infiltrate and manipulate both Britannia _and_ the Citadel Council. That was unconscionable. Yet the evidence—more than Saemaw could summarise in such a brief meeting—indicated that it may have happened.

Just because it hadn't happened _before_ this didn't mean that it was impossible. Nothing was impossible, as the wisest knew—all that was required were the necessary resources and a will to see it through.

"Spectre Baeluse," Tevos finally spoke, "you will continue your investigation on these matters. If someone has compromised our systems, then I want to know immediately. All other considerations or missions are now secondary to this. Am I understood?"

"Certainly, Councilor. What of Stadtfeld?"

"Nothing can be done, unfortunately," she answered finally after a long moment, "even if he is innocent, the politics of the situation has gotten out of hand. Until we have concrete proof, he is nothing more than another unfortunate victim of the circumstances—and not one we can save at the expense of saving far more than just he by catching whoever _made_ him that victim. Only then can we act to restore the course of justice, Spectre."

That was what he was worried about. Even with Tevos on his side, there was no way that Salarians or the Turians would let Stadtfeld go free. The Consortium was beginning to encroach into Citadel space with their products. This was a way to bar them entry through a massive PR hit and also leave the Consortium in flux with the loss of Elend Stadtfeld's heir. Cut-throat corporate consideration, supported by armies of lobbyists.

And beyond all that, just attempting free the man would reveal their hand.

Success made you sloppy. Perfect success made you sloppy _and_ arrogant. Combine that with the element of surprise, and Saemaw was quite sure his so-far shadowy opponent would be in for a rude awakening one of these days—at his hands, preferably.

"As you wish, Councilor."

 **TIE**

" **The Wilderness"**

 **Holy Britannian Empire**

 **Emrys, Cambrian Nebula, Attican Traverse**

 **March 5th, 2170 [13 AH]**

Krathan Balak bit back a curse as he trudged through the underbrush, his weapon trained ahead of him while he scanned for threats. To say that he was angry would be an understatement—he was _furious_.

This operation was supposed to be executed quickly. The raid upon Emrys was intended to confirm the belief that the Britannian Empire was planning on turning the planet into one of their so-called fortress worlds, but also to send a message to the two-eyes that the Hegemony would not continue to allow their transgressions.

As it was with every raiding operation, priority targets had been identified for capture and enslavement. The precise minutiae of the list would change from operation to operation, but the general policy usually remained the same—a mixture of interesting prizes for the more discerning buyers and healthy stock for the rest.

However, Emrys was quite different to many of the worlds they had raided before. Usually Britannia was cautious with its nobility; most anyone of import remained on Earth, with spare heirs and those otherwise ineligible for succession leading the colonisation efforts. Presumably that would change once the colonies were established—Krathan knew enough of the Britannian system to expect there'd be a bunch of newly-minted Viceroys coming along if the Hierarchy failed to kick them out of the Traverse alongside the Alliance. Emrys, though? It had an entire noble _House_.

(Well, it had the patriarch and one of his children, with a wife estranged and a son somewhere in the military. But when you put it like that, it sounded less impressive to the clients).

With Viscount Johnathan Shepard and his daughter on the colony, a unique opportunity presented itself—both for actionable intelligence and financial compensation. There were plenty of significant members of the Hegemony who would pay top credit for a chance at a Britannian noble. Enough for Balak's captain, Balak himself, and quite a few of his crew to live their own small life of luxury.

Unfortunately, everything had quickly fallen apart the moment they'd landed on the planet—the Viscount had killed himself before they'd breached his panic room, and scrubbed all the high-level data regarded future plans for Emrys through the very same console he'd splattered his head over right afterward.

So now they were on damage control. They only had a small window of opportunity before the Britannians figured out a way around the debris they had arranged in front of the Mass Relay to prevent any forces jumping to Emrys' aid and surviving. The shattered wrecks of a first-response patrol group and the lack of any follow-up stood testament to how wise they'd been to set the trap in the first place, but it wouldn't last. At the moment, their job was simply to grab as many slaves as they could and get out before the law, so to speak, caught up with them.

The Viscount's fate had made him angry.

The Viscount's _daughter's_ fate had made him furious.

It was supposed to be a simple operation—they'd identified her out in the forests of the planet. Their information indicated she spent a lot more time out in the wilderness hunting than she did in the city, and that had paid off. One squad had been dispatched to collect her so they'd at least get _something_ out of this.

Six veteran Batarian slavers. One soft two-eyed noble girl.

Easy.

 _That_ been two cycles ago—since then, she'd done her level best to kill Krathan with a aneurysm. The first squad sent had simply disappeared without a word, which should have been the first warning for Captain Harsa, the commander of this expedition. A second squad deployed had encountered nothing—except whatever had killed one of their members on their way back.

That wasn't the worst of it. One of their processing sites had been hit soon after, leaving three men dead and over a dozen slaves lost, fled into the wilderness that surrounded Cadair Emrys, the capital city. The one survivor who did get a look at their attacker had noted that it was a single, short human with red hair. There was only one person Krathan cared about that fit that description.

No prizes for guessing who it was.

An enraged Harsa had demanded that Krathan fix the problem, retrieve the slaves, and capture the girl. As if it was somehow his fault in the first place. And he only had the window of a single cycle to do it.

Thus, here he was, storming into the woods, tracking the girl's last known movements before she had disappeared completely. After referring to a topography map, and then looking over the movements of their troops in going into the forest, he figured he had a rough estimate of where she was likely holed up. Every engagement she'd fought had been within a particular radius of where she'd been when they'd arrived.

The soft growl of the Varren beside him shook him from his thoughts, and he cursed the rain that been falling since they'd entered the forest. It shouldn't have taken nearly this long for their trackers to pick up her scent.

It was only a matter of time now, he thought viciously, before he'd get to pay back the little two-eyed chit for what she'd done. Switching his helmet's visor to thermal, he signaled to his men to start converging on his position.

It was time for the _real_ hunt to begin.

 **TIE**

Unknown to Krathan, the real hunt was already over.

A girl watched from afar, eyes like cut jade staring straight at and through him—much the same way the bullet chambered in her rifle would, if she were to pull the trigger.

For Jane Shepard, not even the cool rain could bring a chill to the fire that burned into her breast. She has been in the colloquially named "Wilderness" when the Batarians had come. The only warning that they were likely to be pursuing her was from her father. Estranged as they were after the decision to move them here, she knew he had still warned her out love.

(It said everything it needed to about Britannian society that this was worthy of note).

Thus, she had been waiting for the Batarians when they sought her out. She killed them to the last. Jane had spent _years_ out here, in this forest, exploring and hunting. She knew it—every nook, every cranny, every last tree—better than anyone alive. In some ways it was more her home than her house. She'd slaughtered the Batarians sideways, from where they couldn't see and when they didn't expect.

In the back of her head, a voice that sounded a lot like Kallen's spoke up. _Asymmetric warfare, bitch._

For most, that would be the end of it—she'd survived, now she could run—but not for her. Where someone else may have disappeared into the wilderness until relief would arrive, living off the land they had become intimately familiar with, she had felt nothing more than a need to make the Batarians suffer, and a youth misspent anywhere and anywhen _except_ doing what would be expected of your ordinary teenaged girl had taught her a few things about how to do just that.

It wasn't for nothing that she'd been planning to enlist since she was twelve.

So when the second squad had been sent to hunt her, she made it a point to kill only one of them and strip him off his omnitool and comm gear before ripping off his locator beacon and hiding the body. With those, she took the fight _to_ the enemy, hitting one of the smaller gathering areas and freeing almost a dozen people, placing them safely in one of the various hunting hideouts that she'd amassed over the last few years.

Now it was a matter of luring the Batarians to her and away from her new charges—and then making them _bleed_.

When the Varren that accompanied her prey perked up, she knew she was on a timetable. Her earpiece erupted in snarling Batarian, the sentiments without a doubt a call to join him.

Placing her rifle away, her finger lightly traced the rose that had been etched into the stock—a reminder of happier times and a dear friend—before she unslung her other weapon.

She would have preferred to use her rifle, but the forecast thunderstorm had yet to manifest, so she would not have the sound to cover her shots. Instead, the task fell to her other weapon—one never intended for this precise purpose, but that had performed admirably enough. Jane shouldn't have been surprised, really. Only the inexorable march of technology had cast it from the battlefield to the hands of hobbyists.

No—while she used her rifle for defense against some of the more nastier fauna on Emrys, her preferred method of hunting was with a heavily customized bow.

She only had three arrows left. Using them against the Batarians had resulted in too much damage to the tips for them to be useful again. She could have restocked a second time, but her closest stash was nearly twenty kilometers away—she'd already used all the arrows stored at the shelter she'd led the prisoners to. She didn't have the time to get there and back. _They_ didn't have the time.

Jane nocked the arrow and waited.

Slowly, her prey moved forward, following the Varren, his weapon trained and scanning in an arc. She had to hand it to him, he was doing a far better job than the others. But his dependence upon the Varren was to be his downfall.

These men were slavers. Soldiers. Not hunters. She couldn't blame them for their ignorance (and if she could, well, she had _much_ better things to blame them for first). They were also fighting where she had the knowledge and advantage. The Varren was a good choice, but it relied on her not being prepared for it.

And prepared for it she was—the animal was leading his master to clothing she had discarded in order to set a trap.

If the Batarian was not alone, she would have been reluctant to engage him, but his arrogance would be his doom. She drew back the arrow, sighting the weapon at the left side of his neck, where the armor he wore was thinnest in order to allow the ability to turn the head.

With barely a whisper, she loosed the arrow, mechanically nocking and drawing another as her eyes tracked the first right into the Batarian's throat. Knowing her first target was now combat ineffective—pretty words for dead—she sighted the second arrow and loosed it, the Varren quickly joining its master in his death throes.

That was when everything went to hell.

She barely had the time to register the threat before pebble-sized tungsten shattered her perch, only her reflexes saving her as she landed on the ground with a pained huff, the air driven from her lungs.

 _Stupid_ , she cursed, shield wailing in her earpiece to alert her to its depletion, _course some of them would have tactical cloaks._

Scrambling to her feet, she fought for breath, dropping the bow, snatching her rifle up, and ducking behind a tree —just in time to hear several more rounds hissing through where she had been, meatily impacting the tree.

She knew she was on limited time. The other Batarian was likely vectoring his comrades to her position. Jane had maybe minutes until she would be overwhelmed by the rest of whoever had been sent to capture or kill her.

Taking a deep breath, she spun around the tree, sighting her rifle down, only to dart back behind it when another fusillade ripped through her former position. Luckily, she had been able to ascertain his location from his fire. Thunder cracked the silence, echoing off the trees—the rain that had been a mere patter suddenly turned into a downpour.

"Now or never," she murmured, spinning the opposite direction, knowing perfectly well that it would place her at a further disadvantage as she would have to adjust to the difference in angles. But to go the other way would put her right in the cloaked bastard's sights.

Jane immediately flung herself behind another tree, tracking the fire from the corner of her eye as her shields screeched at her in warning again. She sprung out the moment the bullets stooped, aiming where she knew he would be in that moment. Her rifle barked, once, twice, a third time as she pulled the trigger, barely controlling the recoil of the weapon. She'd had it for three years and she still wasn't strong enough to spray and pray.

Not that she ever would in the first place.

She was rewarded with the fizzle of her target's cloak as it failed, the shattering of his shield, and then the wet thud of the last round impacting her victim. She didn't stop, firing twice more, marching each shot up his body until the last splintered his head and helmet both and he crumpled to the ground.

Unfortunately for her, however, that wasn't the end of her problems—the howl of a Varren caught her attention just in time for it to come leaping towards her. As she rolled out of the way, it slammed into the tree, teeth missing her head by inches. If they were releasing their Varren, then she didn't have time to dally. She fired a shot blindly backward, more out of instinct and anger than any hope it'd _hit_ something, and ran.

Her breath came in gasping pants, audible to her even above the roar of the rain. Guided solely by memory, she jumped straight over a pair of roots thrust through the damp earth and rolled behind them, straining to listen to the chatter on her earphone.

There were at least, four, maybe five distinct voices, plus however many Varren they had. Maybe one or two. Likely no more. Varren were notoriously ill-behaved no matter what training was imposed upon them, and _hunting_ Varren did not play well with others of their species because of the need to make them aggressive.

Grimacing slightly, she felt her shoulder, feeling a nasty gash running deep across the top. Looks like she was wrong about the Varren missing her, but she didn't have time to treat it. They weren't going to be as reckless with their trackers now. Even with thermal imaging, the rain would cause resolution issues—the Batarians couldn't afford to lose any more of their Varren, and they had to know it.

Digging her fingers into the loamy earth, she quickly pressed in dirt to staunch the bleeding, hissing through clenched teeth. It was going to be hell to treat later, but she needed to stop the bleeding now, or else she'd end up so weak over the next few hours that she wouldn't _need_ to worry about treating it in the first place.

That done, she took stock of her rifle—it was already missing a quarter of its ammunition. One of the downsides of the gun was that while it fired a larger round in comparison to its peers, it was also hell on tungsten block that served as its ammunition. Normally she would have taken spares from her victims, but there hadn't been the time. Now she would have to be more cautious.

The only other weapon she had was the knife she always kept on her person.

A growl from above. Her head snapped up to see another Varren staring down on her, its slavering jaws only inches from her nose. Without a second thought, she drew and drove her knife into its neck and _ripped_ , a screech escaping from the Varren that turned into a gurgle as its throat was torn open, bathing her in its blood. Her wounded shoulder seemed to scream in sympathy, and she spat a curse even John—her brother—would have been proud of.

The Varren flopped down beside her, and she ripped the knife out only to stab it again through its fish-like eye and into the brain, ocular fluid splashing over her. She had just ripped the knife out when a spray of rounds thudded into the roots she was using as shelter. They shuddered under the impacts, spraying her with soil.

Jane looked around, but quickly realized that there was really nowhere left to go—she was near a clearing in the forest, too large for her to traverse safely without getting gunned down. She could go left, where there were more trees, but that was uphill through muddy earth and rain-slick leaf cover. Too many things could go far too wrong. And the less said about going right the better.

If only she had more time, then it would have been much easier, but now she only had a choice to fight or die. The agony in her shoulder and the bone-deep exhaustion of the fight didn't matter. All she felt was determination.

Taking a deep breath, Jane dived back through the gap under the roots, coming to her feet as she raised her rifle, flicking the selective-fire button to the maximum round size. She pulled the trigger as soon as she acquired the faint silhouette of one of her attackers attempting to flank her from behind. The return fire converged on her position, depleting her shield far faster than she had expected. She dropped to the ground too late—a bullet slammed into her chest. Her clavicle shattered against the force.

She gasped, teeth clicking shut to cut it off so quickly she almost bit her tongue in half. She pulled herself—using her rifle as a crutch—back to her cover, wincing at the agony that was wracking her body. It was only luck that the hole wasn't on the same side as her rifle arm, so she could still fight. For a given value of _fight_.

It was now only a matter of time, she thought to herself, the crack of thunder booming but not doing enough to take away the comm chatter of the Batarians coming towards her, flush with the knowledge that she'd been hit. She couldn't understand them, of course, but she could hear the triumph in their voices.

Biting back an agonized cry when she tried to move her left arm, she briefly considered turning the rifle on herself, knowing full well what the Batarians would do to her once they got their claws on her. But she quickly discarded the impulse, determined to go down fighting until she had nothing left. She was not going to give them anything.

That meant one last ditch effort.

Willing what little strength she still had in her body, she braced her rifle, the gift from her best friend, against the roots, and rose up with it, using the cover to brace the gun against her good shoulder to aim. They had her dead to rights the moment she emerged—but she'd be damned if she didn't make them work for it.

It was just as she lined up her first—and perhaps last— shot that everything flashed to white, followed by a monumental crack that seemed to shake the whole world. Reflexively, she dropped back behind her cover, the white glare even there behind her closed eyes. Every hair on her body stood up on end.

The lightning that had landed not a hundred feet from her cleaved straight into a tree, igniting wood far older than the collective age of those beneath it. But it had awoken far more than just _fire_.

There was a reason the forests of Emrys was colloquially known as "The Wilderness". It was a warning to those who would venture out into them unprepared. On Emrys, the Wilderness was a symbol of untapped natural beauty—but it was also home to various predators and creatures of a like best describe as the stuff of nightmares for homo sapiens. Or most anything that wasn't Krogan.

Right now, however, those nightmares were mostly going to be Batarian.

Normally rather docile, what the Emrysian natives called the Drop Bear—the name apparently sourced from Australian folklore—was a creature that you certainly did _not_ want to fuck with under any circumstances. Living in the multitude of trees that dominated the planet around the equator, they generally kept to themselves, chewing on bark, leaves, and the occasional insect. However, if they ever got too hungry, or too angry, they gleefully put the omni in omnivore—they'd launch themselves down from the canopy after anything that moved, all their lazy energy transformed into incredible violence at the hands of the sorts of paws you need to stab your way up trees older than human civilisation… and survive what lived at the top.

It was that unlucky (or lucky, depending upon who you ask) strike of lightning that introduced the Batarians to these shining examples of Emrysian fauna. The bolt sent the tree toppling over and caught it on quickly-extinguished fire to boot, disgorging its 'cuddly' occupants upon their unsuspecting prey, who were scrambling away from the falling tree.

Jane's vision hadn't fully returned by the time she heard the screams—with a start, she brought herself back up to watch as Emrys got its own revenge upon the Batarian invaders. Staring through her scope and watching as a Drop Bear dug its teeth into the neck of one of her Batarian pursuers was rather cathartic, even given the current situation. Sometimes seeing your enemies suffer just felt good.

She couldn't watch for too long, though.

She turned and limped away from the carnage as fast she could, thankful for the reprieve and maybe the opportunity to get to somewhere safe.

 **TIE**

Commander David Anderson looked down with a grimace at the remains of the Batarian at his feet. Despite his disdain for the four-eyed bastards, he wouldn't wish to go out like this one, torn to shreds by a fucking 'drop bear' of all things. There were likely to be jokes about that from his men in the future. A darker part of him hoped they would get back to the Batarians.

When news had broke that Emrys was being attacked by Batarian raiding parties, Britannia had been swift in their response, sending a destroyer group to relieve the beleaguered colony. Unfortunately, the Batarians had been prepared, placing several freighters in the exit path of the Mass Relay in system and scuttling them. It was completely unexpected—the Britannian fleet had been quickly destroyed either through colliding with the ships upon returning to 'realspace', for want of a better word, or being forced to navigate a sometimes-literal minefield of debris, ordinance, and disguised Batarian ships, allowing the nominally outgunned slavers to take them out.

After that, bureaucracy interfered. While he wasn't privy to all of the details of it, the basic gist according to the rumor mill was that the Systems Alliance and Turian Hierarchy would not allow any major Britannian warships—the sort that could simply blow through the minefield and shrug off the Batarian's fire—through the relay network into the Traverse without proper authentication and paperwork. It made sense on the surface; you don't just let an antagonistic faction freely move their armies around if you can help it. The Alliance themselves were nominally held to the same restriction, they just had a much more expedient time _getting_ that authentication.

In this _specific_ situation, however? Every man and his dog knew why the Britannians wanted to move a battlefleet from Earth into the Traverse. Hell, if they had any ounce of, well, he supposed _humanity_ was the wrong word, even the Turians guarding the Sol relay probably wanted to let the Britannians through. If there was one galactic constant, it was that nobody liked the Hegemony. But rules were rules were rules, and the Humiliation stood testament to how strictly the Hierarchy observed and enforced them.

No—it was a shitty situation all round, but that was galactic politics for you. It would have taken a week at the fastest, assuming nobody thought it was a good idea to obstruct the process (and he'd bet his second-best pistol there were slimeballs on every side willing to, probably hoping to make some money out of unstopping the wheels), for the Britannians to be let through. Most Batarian raids didn't last that long.

To no-one's surprise, Prime Minister Schneizel had involved himself personally in the efforts. To _everyone's_ surprise, however, he hadn't lobbied the Hierarchy. He'd lobbied the _Alliance_ , personally contacting Prime Minister Royse and beseeching her to relieve Emrys on humanitarian grounds. It was after that that the Systems Alliance Second Fleet, which had been undergoing exercises elsewhere in the Alliance's Traverse territory—and was thus immune to any restrictions on the relays—was issued with orders to relieve Elysium and render whatever aid they could.

In the three days that it took for Elysium to be relieved, it was immediately evident that they were too late to do anything but search for any survivors. Of the nearly fifty thousand inhabitants that had populated Emrys, less than five thousand remained.

The reason he was out here in the wilderness of the planet instead of back in the capital helping to process the refugees, however, was because of a group of survivors and the story they'd shared of a teenaged girl who had rescued them from a processing camp, hid them out here, and then led the Batarians away.

In any other circumstance, he would have written the nameless saviour off as a lost cause—the idea that a teenager would be able to survive a fight with Batarian irregulars was ludicrous. But his job was to recover _any_ survivors, or at least their remains if possible, and by all accounts whoever they were, teenager or not, had been too heroic to be left to rot in this place. Thus, he had taken his squad and began tracking.

Which had led them to here.

"Boss," a voice called out. He stepped away from the grisly scene and walked over to where Sergeant Ignacio Gomes was standing by a wild tangle of roots.

"What you got, Gomes?" he asked, taking a look at the roots. It was like they'd been run through a mulcher. On the other side was a dead Varren, its carcass almost picked clean.

"Lot of small arms," he indicated, "our girl looks like she was using these roots for cover—fat lot of good it seemed to be doing. Batarians had her pinned down, likely sent Varren to keep her busy while they kept up the fire and worked to flank her."

Grunting in acknowledgement, he looked around, trying to figure out where the woman could have gone. None of this made any sense—the actions they had been able to discern prior to this point by weren't those of a survivor, but a soldier. She'd _led_ them to this area…

"Any idea on where she could have gone?"

"Girl's a hunter," Gomes finally said, rubbing his jaw. "We found her bow and everything, and that's not to mention what she did to the four-eyes. Stalked 'em like deer. She has to have a hole that she could rabbit to if things got dicey. She likely wouldn't venture too far from it—too risky, both with the Bats and the local fauna. What's the local top look like, LT?"

Quickly, David brought up his omnitool and displayed a topographical map, Gomes leaned over to peer at it closely, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Then he brought up his finger and placed it right on a point in the holographic image.

"If I was her, and I was familiar with the area, I'd have a hole right around here. It's nice and defensible, and has a stream nearby. Probably why she put her fight up around here. If shit got hairy, she could disengage and disappear into that hole with them all chasing her the other way. Varren likely fucked that up, though, or one of the bastards with a cloak."

The point indicated was almost a kilometer away—taking one more look at it, David immediately commed in to command to inform them of his intentions.

"Anywhere else she could go?" he asked after he finished his report.

Gomes shook his head. "There are a few other places, but they aren't as good as that one. If your girl is hurt, like I think she must be, the freshwater stream would be good for any first aid she'd need. Even if she doesn't have a camp there, it's a good place to fall back to."

With a solemn nod, David began walking, Gomes falling in behind him along with the rest of his squad. It wasn't that long a journey, but they did have to be cautious—they had no idea what could be out there. The dead Batarians were indication enough that something went on, but there could very well be more, hiding out in a place like this. Let alone the damn fauna.

But soon enough, they arrived at the spot without a hint of trouble.

"Fan out," David commanded, "and keep your wits about you. She likely still believes the Batarians are here, so make sure to identify yourself if you encounter her."

With that said, he chose a direction and began moving, keeping a careful eye out for any sign that the subject of their search was here—or that humans weren't the only ones who'd realised this was a good spot to make a camp.

He was so focused on the search that he almost missed it. It was a soft sound, almost like the wind, yet unmistakable to a man of his experience. Turning to the side, he listened even more intently, tuning out everything except for what he wanted.

As if on demand, he was rewarded again by a soft groan.

David crept forward, noting now how he had almost walked by it. Situated between the shadows of a pair of trees was a canopy of leaves, more than wide and thick enough to protect anything beneath it from the elements, yet arranged in such a way that it was hard to differentiate from the natural underbrush at a cursory glance.

He stowed his rifle and drew his pistol—not ideal to use one-handed, no matter what the movies told you, but better than an Avenger—before slipping into the canopy and slowly drawing it to the side, gun trained on gloom inside.

Bingo. Even in the dim ambient light, he could see her regardless of the dull, dried blood and muck caking her form. Her red hair stood out from where she laid sprawled in the shadows, another moan of pain slipping from her lips. Replacing his pistol on his hip, he quickly strode into the hidey hole, taking in the… well, she _was_ a teenaged girl, more fool him, and noting how one arm was still curled around her rifle—a Britannian Negotiator model if his eyes were not playing tricks. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

It wasn't important right now, regardless. David activated the lights on his helmet and took off a glove, placing the newly naked hand upon her damp forehead. She was burning up, likely from infection and blood loss. There was a nasty wound in her left collarbone. A bullet hole. And now that he looked closer, there were claw marks on the back of that same shoulder.

"Control, I need an immediate medevac upon my position," he commed, turning on his rescue beacon. The girl needed medical attention and she needed it yesterday—far more than what David's squad could provide.

Her eyes suddenly fluttered open, glassy and flinching away from the light as she blinked rapidly. She started struggling to her feet, but he held her down as gently as he could, making sure to avoid her injury.

"Easy. Easy. You're safe," he soothed, and after a moment she began to still, "medical is on its way here. I need you to stay with me. What's your name?"

"Jane," came a raspy voice. She was probably dehydrated too. Good God. Her eyes cleared slightly and the blinking stopped—now he clearly could see that they were a brilliant green.

"Jane. That's a good name. You got any others?"

"Shepard."

He froze, everything clicking together with startling clarity. No wonder he'd thought he'd recognised her. After all, he'd worked with the very woman she shared an uncanny resemblance with during his time upon the _Agamemnon._

David didn't hesitate, flicking his omni-tool on and connecting the command line to the _St. Helens,_ flagship of the Second Fleet. Within moments, a new voice filled his headset.

"What is it, David?" came a tired voice on the other line.

"I have a critical case that's going to be transferred to the _St. Helens_ ," he said; he could hear shuttle engines in the distance, probably the medevac's by the timbre. "Hannah, I'm pretty sure it's your daughter."


End file.
